


Learning To Breathe

by winterlive



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-25
Updated: 2008-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlive/pseuds/winterlive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years into their unofficial cold war, Clark offers to do anything Lex wants for one full day.  Lex chooses to be a control freak, so, a day that ends in Y.  Shameless excuse for porn.  See end notes for warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning To Breathe

For the first time in years, Clark feels totally out of place standing in a library. Usually they're great places; they smell like book dust and sunlight. Clark's spent hours in libraries, because for a foot in the door of the Daily Planet, you have to start in the microfiche room. But this place... this is different. Blinding daylight pours through the huge window, and all books are old enough to be antiques, but their scents are dimmed away by the building's air filtration system. The last time Clark felt this uncomfortable in a library, he was standing in a mansion in Smallville, not trusting his own voice to keep his confidence.

But then, that's fitting. This is about how Clark remembers Lex's office, back home.

Clark's been waiting twenty minutes now. You'd figure that after ten years Lex would quit making power plays, but being as how Clark's known all about those power plays for ten years and keeps walking into them, he can't exactly complain. He knew what he was in for when he picked up the phone a week ago.

_I need money,_ he'd said. _They're going to take the farm; I can't pay the mortgage on the salary they pay a cub reporter and Mom'll kill me if I try to put anything in hock again. I'm offering... anything. Anything you want. I'll take a sick day; I can tell them I ate shrimp._

He'd blurted it all out before Lex had a chance to say anything, and the silence stretched out until Clark's heart was hammering in his chest, his breath catching. Finally, Lex's voice had come smoothly over the line, so calm: _Anything I want,_ he'd said. _For one full day._

Clark worried his lip. _That's right._

_Deal. Come to the penthouse at eight in the morning, Saturday. Use the front door, and your real name._

Clark had obeyed, and now he feels the dawn warming his face through Lex's window. He fights down the urge to spin the kinetic steel helix sitting on the desk, because it's his nerves getting the better of him. He needs to calm down. What's the worst that can happen? It's not like Lex can force him into anything, and Clark's ten times more comfortable when Lex's attention is focused on _him_ , instead of nuclear physics or Metropolis's sewer system or whatever it is _this_ week.

When Lex arrives (after another ten minutes, but hey, it's his day) there is a storm of sound that comes with him. A man and a woman trail along behind him and he has a cell phone to his ear, and Clark watches with interest to see if he can figure out how they know which order is intended for whom. They scramble in what looks like an organized fashion, and Clark narrows his eyes at them, but nothing resolves itself so he gives up and sits back in his chair.

"I'm still waiting, doctor. A week should be more than sufficient for what we agreed on. I regret paying your salary already." Lex tosses the phone at the guy with the spiky blond hair, who passes him a black plastic bag.

"That should be it," says Blondie. "You're all set."

The woman scowls grimly. " _Please_ reconsider, sir. It's my responsibility to-"

"Mercy, make sure to ride that prokaryotics lab. I want a full simulation by noon tomorrow. And now you're cutting into my time."

Clark can see Mercy's teeth gritting, the muscle jump in her cheek. "Sir."

The office is quiet once they've gone. Lex's eyes are steady, guarded, and Clark breathes carefully and lets himself be looked at. It's Lex's day, he coaches himself. He's paying for it. Of all the things he could be doing right now under the terms of this deal, this is pretty mild.

"I suppose," Lex says quietly. It should have something after it, Clark thinks, but Lex doesn't finish it.

Clark licks his lips and stares at the desk toy. It seems safest.

Lex loosens his tie. It's possible he's been wearing it all night; the suit looks a bit rumpled, though it has to have cost the approximate gross national product of Zimbabwe. He puts the plastic bag down beside his feet, and Clark's tempted to x-ray it, but he figures that if Lex wanted him to know what was in it, he'd dump it out on the desk. And if he wants it to be a surprise, well... it's his day.

"Strip," Lex says in that same quiet, reasonable voice. "Down to the skin. Lie down on the couch when you're done."

Clark feels his breath catch in his throat immediately. He'd have to be seriously impaired not to have seen this coming, but he didn't think it'd be so... fast. He'd pictured some talking first, maybe some stinging remarks about if his mother knew, that kind of thing. He stands up and takes the hem of his t-shirt in his hands, worrying at the fabric for a second before tugging it up his chest in small increments. That's how the guy at the strip club did it; at least how Clark remembers from the one time he was there. He knows he should be looking into Lex's eyes, too, but he can't seem to make himself, and Lex didn't ask.

"Stop," Lex says, and Clark can hear the hint of a smile. "It's not that I don't appreciate the effort, Clark, but you can just take your clothes off. I don't need a show."

He's startled into looking, then. The smile he heard is nowhere in evidence on Lex's face, and Clark looks away again before he can get caught staring, caught thinking. He tugs his shirt up over his head and lays it on the chair like he's at home. There is no further commentary from the peanut gallery, so he slides out of his shoes, his hands busy with belt and buttons. He shucks it all down at once, before he can change his mind.

Clark doesn't know what to do with his hands when he's naked. Blessedly, there's a couch to go to. It's leather, so Clark picks up a throw blanket and lays it on the cushions. It's probably a designer blanket, just as expensive as whatever the couch is made out of (elephant, rhino, Thanagarian war pig), but at least it can be picked up and carried along with him.

If that should prove necessary.

Lex is at the bar, and when he turns toward Clark, he's got a blue bottle in his hands. Clark blinks to see it - it's been a long time. He watches Lex find an armchair opposite the couch and slide down into it, twist the cap off the bottle and touch it to his lips. "Lie down," he says, a gentle reminder.

"Oh. Right." The throw is woven in just such a way; lines of texture criss-cross Clark's skin, pressing into his back and ass. But he settles as comfortably as he can and puts an arm behind his head so that he can see Lex's face if he wants to. Right now, he's pretty much staring at the Rothko on the wall.

"Tell me what you think about," Lex says. He sounds so patient, so calm.

Clark doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "You mean when I'm, uh."

"Yes." There's that hint of a smile in his voice again.

"Um. Angelina Jolie?"

Lex laughs, soft and dangerous as a viper. "You and half the known world. Try again."

Clark smiles. "Brad Pitt?"

"What about Lois?" Lex counters.

The coughing fit that results from Clark trying to breathe his own tongue is amusing to Lex, at least. "No," Clark blurts. "She's my partner. And kind of inconsiderate."

"Meaning?"

"She makes me bring her coffee," Clark shrugs. "And she only remembers to pay me half the time."

Lex sips from his water and Clark carefully does not look at him. "Still," Lex murmurs. "You're saying she never got face time?"

Clark flushes, head to toe. He's been trying like mad to hold it back, but it's like trying to not have black hair. "Maybe once or twice," he admits, his face burning.

"Tell me," Lex says, settling back against the chair's cushion. "Tell me about that one."

Clark squirms under that cool blue gaze, fighting the urge to cover up. "There's not much to say, Lex. Make a fist, picture a pretty girl, repeat." He demonstrates on the air, his fingers curled loose in suggestion. "You want me to...?"

Lex makes a cautious sound. "Not yet. There has to be more to your fantasy life than that. What about your... other friends?" He draws a lazy circle in the air with one manicured fingertip.

"What, you mean, like... um. Co-workers?" The bright colors of the Justice League line up behind his eyes.

"I'm not recording," Lex says, strychnine lacing his tone.

Clark shrugs and sidesteps the offense with a partial truth. "Sometimes. Some of them."

"Who?"

"Well, I... can I use initials?"

"Fine."

"Well, W, for sure."

Lex sighs. "Wally West or Wonder Woman?"

"You realize I officially have to tell you I have no idea what you're talking about."

Lex scowls. "Fine. Unrelated to anyone you may or may not spend time with or have met in person, if there even is such a person, you can now describe to me in detail any fantasies you have about the Batman. Or you can get out."

Clark coughs again. He has to close his eyes; he can feel the heat on the back of his eyelids. "Um."

"Feel free to gather your thoughts," says that smooth, polished voice, and Clark hears Lex relax again.

His instincts are still perfect, Clark thinks despairingly. He _would_ have to pick Bruce. Clark licks his lips and tries to relax, shifts his hips and shoulders against the press of the throw underneath him. He pictures the shadows that cling to cape and cowl, the artificial rasp of Bruce's voice and the real vibrato behind it. Hours clocked fighting at his side, throwing the bad guys into his fist; sooner or later Clark's interest in the same sex would have to assert itself because Bruce is nothing if not a fine god damn specimen of a man and his five second crush on Ollie flew right out the window when he met the Dark Knight.

"I like him," Clark confesses, picking words out of his psyche that are safe to say. "He's not really as bitchy as they say he is."

Lex makes a smug sound against the back of his teeth. "Cursing. What _would_ the press say?"

Clark ignores that, his eyes still firmly closed. It's helpful not to be able to see. "I always thought he'd be really intense in bed, but now I think it might be the only time he'd relax. He might have fun with it, like it's supposed to be. He's got a wicked sense of humor."

"Mm. What would he do to you? Imagine it."

"I think he likes to kiss," Clark says, shifting a little on the couch to get more comfortable. He seems like the kind of person who'd kiss you for hours, y'know? Whether it's your mouth or your... y'know, wherever else." Lex hums appreciatively, and Clark takes that to mean he should go on. The pictures are fading through his mind, familiar edges worn soft by his memory. "I don't know if he likes guys, but if he does I bet he's a top. He's a huge control freak, but I'm sure he'd never hurt me. I think if he wanted to, y'know, _drive_ , I'd let him. He's really good, like, good to look at. And I know I can trust him."

"Clark," Lex murmurs, his voice like old silk, tender and rough. "You're hard."

Surprised, Clark opens his eyes and peers down his belly. Sure enough.

His hand is resting on his hip, and he wants to move it, but he knows he's supposed to ask first. That much he can sense. Clark bristles a little on the inside; he's the most powerful being on this planet, and here he is asking permission to touch his own cock just because Lex Luthor gets off on it.

He needs to get some of his own back, so he looks over at Lex, meets those dark, focused eyes, and bites his bottom lip. "Now?" he asks, and lets his voice plead a little.

There's that jump of muscle in Lex's is cheek, the same one Mercy made earlier, so righteously pissed off.

Clark blushes at being caught playing games; should have known better. He lets his eyes fall back to the painting on the wall and sighs. "Sorry."

"Don't let it happen again," Lex says softly, and sips his water. "Now put two of your fingers in your mouth and suck them like it'll buy your next meal."

That's a little too much for a boy from small town Kansas. Clark turns his head to look at Lex incredulously. "Could you repeat that?"

Lex smiles cheerily. "Breakfast actually _is_ riding on this, just so you know."

His cheeks flame instantly. Nobody can make him do that like Lex can, and there's nothing new about that. Clark lifts up his left hand and brings it to his face, licks his lips.

Over in his armchair, Lex shifts. Clark doesn't look to see why, because he's pretty sure he'd have to do something drastic if anything was happening over there that involved nakedness. All he can do is tuck the tips of his fingers into his mouth and let his tongue wet them down, let his cheeks hollow out, let his eyes close. It's soothing to lose himself in that motion, and he uses his mouth to play around for a bit before he remembers that he's supposed to get breakfast out of this. He considers for a half second what would be best from Lex's point of view, and as soon as the thought occurs to start fucking his mouth with his fingers, he's doing it - open wider, tilt head back, push in as far as possible.

Lex watches that for maybe five seconds before making a sound, something deep and grudging and gritted. "That's enough," he says. "Stop."

Clark pulls his fingers out of his mouth and rests them on his hip again, as close to his cock as he dares. "Do I get the eggs benny?" he asks, licking his lip.

"Yes." Lex pauses for a long minute, taking it in or calming down or something.

Clark hasn't opened his eyes and has no intention of it, so he's not sure. But at least he's gonna eat. Tension's thrumming through his body and he shifts a little, his dick thumping insistently down against his stomach.

"All right, Clark," Lex says, his voice caressing, soft and kind and other things Lex isn't. "Take your cock in your hand and squeeze for me. Nice and tight."

Clark does that, and the tension in him doubles. He's throbbing hard, instantly; a little touch makes all the difference. He can feel his balls draw up and so he crooks one knee, leaning it against the couch so Lex can see, so it's all framed for him. Clark's eyes are still closed, but that doesn't mean he can't imagine Lex watching him, filling his eyes, years and years of wanting-to-know making a huge hollow void that Clark couldn't fill if he stayed here a week. A year wouldn't be enough. Lex will always want more, and the thought sends blood firing through him, shivering sweet. "Can I move?" he asks, and this time the wavering in his voice is just biology, no games anymore.

"Open your eyes first," Lex murmurs, almost gentle.

Oh, no, that's not good. What if he's naked? Clark thinks frantically. No, there would have been more sound than that, something would have given him away. Clark squeezes his cock again, buying more time, and then carefully pries his eyes open and turns his face.

Lex is sitting in his armchair, perfectly arranged. His legs are crossed at the knee and he's leaning back in the chair, his elbows on the arms and the fingers of one hand resting soft against his lips. He looks cool and calm, in perfect poise, and Clark's dick leaps in his hand, demanding, making his brain buzz and short. He starts to strip at it, squeeze and lift and squeeze again, running the insides of his fingers over the crown. He's not looking to draw it out. He needs to _come_ , fixed on Lex's bottomless blue eyes, not a thread out of place, perfectly calm.

In the next twenty-four hours, Clark promises himself, he will make Lex absolutely _lose it_. He doesn't know how, but he'll do it, and it'll be the greatest thing he's ever seen, which includes sunrise in the arctic. He bites his bottom lip and watches Lex wanting him, holding back, and he is seized by a terrible urge.

"Tell me what you want," Clark whispers, his voice dying, uncertain. The air smells like him, like sex. "Tell me something I can give you."

"Not yet, Clark," Lex murmurs, his hands tensing on the arms of the chair. "You can come any time."

He meant to draw it out a little longer, but it's not an option; Lex has always been good at getting him to do the thing he wants, instead of the thing he knows he should. His hips move without his instruction, a jerk and pull at his belly that has his body moving on its own volition, velocity. Clark's hand slides on his dick too hard, too rough without anything to ease the friction, but the heat burn digs under his skin and into his balls and he can't stop, he can't. He shields the slit with the edge of his thumb and drips all over himself, but he can't manage to care. His voice is ringing against the ceiling, and his whole head feels like it's on fire, because this is Lex right here, with him, finally. Finally.

But he buried that need long ago. Shoving it back down is second nature.

Clark wrings the last couple of aftershocks out of it and then relaxes back onto the cushions, eyes closed, catching his breath. There is no sound from Lex's chair, so Clark just lies there and allows his body to shudder back to its resting state, unspool and unwind. He smiles when he thinks to himself that Lex is allowing for afterglow; it's probably some kind of ploy to make him ready for whatever's next.

"Good," Lex says, and his voice has an unsteadiness that makes Clark's smile go wider, show his teeth. "Now get dressed," Lex continues. "We're going out."

Clark opens his eyes, wipes his thumb on his thigh. "Okay. Just let me clean up and-"

"Clark," Lex interrupts firmly. "I said get _dressed._ "

Oh, Clark thinks, and feels the blush slip down into his chest. That's what's next. He makes a sacrifice and grabs his boxers, uses them to mop up the worst of things, keenly conscious of Lex's unrelenting gaze on him. When he's done, he balls them up and leaves them on the sofa, climbs into his jeans and t-shirt and then takes his dress shirt by the collar.

"Not that," says Lex. "Leave your shirt and jacket behind."

Clark bites back a retort and sternly reminds himself that he's here to follow orders, even if they're terse and irritating. He drops the forbidden items of clothing over his boxers, thinking to spare any cleaning staff an unpleasant surprise. Then he picks up his glasses, thick and black and ready to hide behind. When he first put them on about four years ago, they were more of a nuisance than anything, but they've become a big comfort. When he puts them on, Superman's gone, safe in his fortress, and all that's left is just Clark Kent.

Lex holds out one elegant, manicured hand. "Give those to me."

Clark has to meet his eyes then, and is surprised to see a vicious edge in that icy blue. That's a bigger reaction than anything else has gotten so far, which is a big deal given that, hey, there was nakedness. For curiosity's sake, if nothing else, Clark hands them over.

Lex takes the two lenses between his hands and twists. The plastic crunches in his hands and Clark exclaims. "Hey!"

"I'll buy you four more," Lex smiles, and pulls the arms off the broken frames like a boy pulls the legs off a fly.

Clark plants his hands on his hips, scowling. "Can I at least fix my hair?"

"No," Lex says, standing up to put the remains of the glasses in a garbage can, dusting off his hands.

"Can I wash my hands?"

"Probably soon, but not now."

"You want me to stick a post-it note to my head that says I just had sex?"

Lex turns to grin at him, wide and warm and utterly disarming. "If you really want to, Clark."

It's disappointing and irritating. It's outside the rules, and Lex always plays by the rules, so Clark thinks it's perfectly reasonable to call foul. "I can't go out like this," he says. "We agreed on a day, one day. My life has to go on as usual tomorrow, and that doesn't include everybody I know thinking that I'm having sex with _you._ "

"Clark," Lex scolds, still smiling. He closes the distance between them and ruffles Clark's hair so that the few strands that were still in place immediately tumble into disarray. Clark looks like a kid without his hair in order, and he struggles against the urge to move his head away. Lex's smile sharpens. "Come on. I have a reputation to maintain. Nobody will recognize Clark Kent, or Superman. You show up with me, looking like this, and all anybody's going to see is the next in a long series of conquests. Anonymous, pretty, disposable. Think of it like your glasses, only... better."

"Better for _you_ ," Clark frowns, but more for show than out of any real resentment.

Lex shrugs. "It's my day."

At breakfast, Lex orders for him. Clark's annoyed at first but it fades fast, because it's nice to have somebody else make the decisions for once. He's a little surprised by how people don't stare. Executive President CEO Mister Luthor is having breakfast with some dishevelled punk in a t-shirt; if he had his reporter hat on today, he'd be curious. But nobody here seems especially interested, and Clark wonders vaguely if Lex paid them all off in advance or something.

Whatever magic he's worked, it continues right through the toast and coffee, through the bacon and, yes, eggs benedict, through everything up to the fruit tray. Lex tells Clark to feed him a piece of melon, which sounds pretty innocent, so Clark dips some honeydew in the cream cheese thing and pretends to be the kind of disposable person that'd have fun with something like this. It kind of _is_ fun, when he thinks about it - no demands, no expectations. He can almost pretend he's here because it feels good, that tomorrow he'll go back to his life and it'll be like he's had a vacation. He touches the melon to Lex's lips and then pulls it away a half inch, smiling.

Lex narrows his eyes and then grips Clark's wrist to hold it in place. Clark laughs and stays still, but the sound dies in the back of his throat when Lex sucks the sheen of juice from Clark's fingers. He can't help but remember that Lex hasn't let him wash his hands yet, that there's more than melon on his fingers, and Lex bites down like he'd eat it all, like he might bite down in... other places.

Suddenly Clark's face is burning again, and Lex pulls away and dabs at his mouth with a napkin.

After breakfast, they go to the second floor of a non-descript old brick walk-up. There's no sign or anything on the door, and inside it's a tiny space filled with mannequins, chairs and display cases full of accessories. There aren't any visible clothes, and Clark figures this is because the place is so exclusive that only, like, world dictators and the Fortune 500 gets to shop here. Maybe there's a card or something that you get when you earn your first billion.

Lex chats with the proprietors in Vietnamese for about five minutes before they beckon Clark over. Clark speaks Vietnamese just fine, but he chooses not to eavesdrop anyway, examining a rack of hand-stitched scarves with no label. Lex follows, and they're led down a hallway that has dozens of doors off it. The man leading them opens one of the doors and tells Lex that it'll be about thirty minutes until the fitter is ready for them. Lex thanks him, and Clark tries to do the same, but he doesn't so much as look in Clark's direction.

There could be any number of explanations for that, but it stings Clark's pride all the same.

Lex shuts the door and draws Clark inside. "Stand here."

The room is dominated by a raised pedestal in the middle of the floor. There are a number of strategically arranged mirrors designed to give the person on the pedestal an easy 360-degree view of themselves. Clark hesitates for a second, but then he spies the table with the huge array of needles and thread, of pins and tape measure and assorted tools of the trade. He sighs, walks over and steps onto it.

"What's the matter, Clark?" Lex asks softly, just out of sight. "I would have thought you'd be used to being up there by now."

"Not from you," Clark says, looking idly into the mirrors. "Not for a long time, now."

There's a moment's pause. "Well," Lex says. "I guess not."

Then comes the sound of water running, fingers testing the temperature. Clark closes his eyes - he'll find out soon enough, and Lex will like it better if he doesn't know.

"Clothes," Lex says after a minute or so, and Clark gets rid of jeans and t-shirt with relief. They're pretty funky by now, so he kicks them to a corner.

Then Lex comes into view and Clark feels his knees go weak. He's ditched his jacket somewhere and his tie is loosened just enough to undo his top button. He's rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, enough to show off the curve of his arm. Between now and when he left Smallville he must have hired a personal trainer or something; his lithe, slender build has the beginnings of muscle now, thicker and heavier - he was the hottest person Clark knew in real life before, and now it's the same thing only a different, equally awesome shape.

He's carrying a small table with a basin on it. There's a towel hanging from the side and a big, fluffy sponge in the water.

"You're kidding," Clark says.

Lex looks up at him with eyes like the center of a glacier. "Feet apart."

Blushing furiously, Clark spreads his feet on the pedestal. He fights the urge to cover himself; if there's anything more exposing than this, he can't think of it. He shuts his eyes again so he won't have to see the reflections, endless naked versions of himself. When he's safely hidden behind his lashes, he wonders if some of those other Clarks are here for different reasons. Maybe one of them let Lex buy his friendship all those years ago and rejected his parents. Maybe one of them is on red kryptonite and just doesn't care anymore. Maybe.

The sponge splashes when Lex wrings it out, and Clark's self-enforced blindness makes the sound very loud. He can feel the air on his skin, by turns cool and warm. The first touch of the sponge is just right, low on his belly, and Clark sighs as it slips down across his hip, over his thighs, licking up under his balls. If there is one downfall of this, it's that he can't actually feel Lex's hands on him, but he's willing to wait.

"Ask me, Clark," Lex says, his voice soothing in the cool air. "Tell me what you want."

Clark blurts it out before he can think too much, before he can work through the implications. "Touch me," he breathes, not daring to open his eyes. "Please."

"Mm. I like that."

The sponge hitches its way across his skin, down his thighs and back up. Water drips down his legs and onto the floor; it smells like lilies. Clark can't help but notice that he isn't being touched, hello, touching seems appropriate, but he doesn't dare accuse when he's already halfway to hard. He wracks his brain for something that would be the right thing, something Lex would like. When he clasps his hands behind his back and holds them there, the ghost of heated breath across his hip tells him he made the right decision. "Please," he tries, and tilts his hips forward.

Lex's sponge comes brushing up underneath again, lifting him softly. "If you insist," he says, his voice feather-light.

And just as soft, Clark feels the brush of a hot, slick tongue come dragging up the underside of his cock. His eyes fly open, and the sight of those cruel, soft, scarred lips closing over the head is instantly unbearable. He hears himself make a terrible sound but he can't hold it back, can't be bothered. He puts his hands on Lex's head without thinking, and Lex immediately draws back.

"You don't touch until you're told," he orders through perfectly white teeth, angry eyes burning up at Clark, almost offended.

Clark hurries to put his hands back where they were, clasping them hard enough to make his shoulders ache. "Sorry," he blurts, flushing with embarrassment. He should have known better. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Lex glares at him for a minute, but then lets his mouth twist wryly. "No, you didn't. But I don't give passes for ignorance, Clark. This is two."

"Three strikes," Clark nods hastily. His body is screaming for Lex's mouth, demanding he do whatever it takes to get it back. "I got it, I promise."

Lex nods. He looks over Clark's body, what's on offer, and the annoyance in his eyes softens, crowded out by heat. "I'd hate to waste this opportunity. You look beautiful like this. I always knew you would, but it's something else to see you like this. Naked. In front of _me_."

He reaches out a hand and runs it over the air above Clark's skin. Clark can feel the heat from his palm, but not the friction, and it's terrible to endure but he manages not to move, not to reach. "You have me," he says, his voice beat to shit. He tilts his hips forward again, just enough to draw the eye. "I'm yours, okay, just please, Lex..."

"You don't really mean that," Lex says, leaning down to draw his tongue over the hot skin. Clark gasps, digs his nails into his wrist behind his back. "But you will."

"Okay," Clark says, past caring. "Okay. Lex. God, please..."

Lex slides down onto him again, his mouth so tight and perfect. Clark has a moment's totally insane rage when he realizes that Lex must have practice at this, and it makes absolutely no sense because he's always known Lex has more experience. But then he imagines Lex doing this for someone, his tongue and his cheeks and his perfectly imperfect lips, and that person failing somehow to appreciate how serious it is that Lex is allowing it, and suddenly Clark's so jealous his eyes are a shade greener. He wants to hold Lex by the back of the neck, to touch him as he's doing this, and that he isn't supposed to seems like the cruellest thing since Stalin.

There's some twisty, flickering thing going on just underneath, and Clark is driven higher by it almost instantly. Once again he'd like to hold out, to enjoy it for a little longer, maybe push into Lex's mouth just a little bit, but Lex flicks his tongue again and Clark is gasping, right on the edge. "Oh, God," he whispers through his teeth. "Lex, I'm so close..."

Lex stabs his tongue at that spot again, and without any kind of hesitation he just slides straight down, all the way down, and before Clark knows it he's coming, shivering and desperate and clinging to his own wrist so hard he thinks it might just bruise.

In the aftermath, Clark tries hard to remember not to sit down. Lex pulls away from him and starts to wash his skin again, and that's very relaxing. Clark forgets all about the mirrors or the need to do pretty much anything except stand here and let Lex do anything he wants, and that seems to be what Lex is going for, so everybody's happy. By the time Lex towels him off, he smells like lilies and soap. Lex hands him a pair of briefs to put on, and though they have far too little fabric for someone who grew up on a farm, they do cover the relevant anatomy. Mostly. Clark puts them on and Lex takes the basin back to where it's supposed to be and then sits down in one of the chairs to flip idly through a magazine.

"Lex?" Clark asks tentatively, after a minute.

"Mm?"

"Who's running your empire right now?"

Lex looks up at him, both suspicious and curious. "Why do you need to know?"

Clark shrugs. "No reason. I always liked to think that you were leaving it to be with me, but it probably just runs itself."

There's a significant pause, and Lex opens his magazine again. "It does. But I turned my cell phone off. I'll be getting dirty looks from the Chinese ambassador for a month."

Clark smiles, hiding it against his shoulder, and they don't say anything else until the tailor arrives.

All sorts of things are measured in the course of the next hour. Clark stands with his hands out to his sides for most of it and thanks God that his shoulders can't really hurt from something like that. He pretends it does now and then for the benefit of the tailors, and Lex glowers each time until Clark stops feeling guilty and starts playing it up just to give himself something to do. He sighs and winces and rolls his shoulders; he sighs deeper when Lex is nearby and waits for the tailors to leave the room so the martyr jokes can start.

When the room is finally empty, he's surprised at the silence, but that's only until Lex comes around to stand in front of him. He looks angry, which Clark expected, but he's not expecting the firm hand at the back of his neck, the relentless pull that he could resist but doesn't think he should. He ducks his head, then stoops his shoulders, and when Lex keeps pulling he gets the idea to fall to his knees, which is maybe the best idea he's had in a long time. Clark spreads his knees and sits back on his heels so he can look up into that familiar face, watch the lust gathering like storm clouds. Lex is always so angry when he's turned on; it's been a serious mindfuck in the last few years, Clark doesn't mind admitting that.

"What's wrong?" he asks, though he didn't expect to be breathless when he did.

Lex wraps the hair at Clark's nape around his fingers. He clenches his fist and Clark is bending back before he knows it, before it's really registered. It's not the physical strength that makes him do it; no, it's something else. "I suppose you thought I'd like it – being in on the joke, this time," he murmurs, his breath brushing soft across Clark's neck.

"No," Clark says, meaning the idea of there being a joke, or that it would be played on anybody but himself.

Lex smiles against the line of his jaw. Clark can feel the vicious curve, the glancing score of teeth. "I did like it."

Clark wants a kiss so badly he can almost taste it. It's been a long time coming and he can almost feel the scar line under his tongue, the straight edge razor of teeth at his lips. In his mind, Lex tastes like cucumber and pepper, the sea right before the storm, crackling energy seething under silence. Clark's pictured this kiss for a long time, and even though it's not what he dreamed up when he was fifteen and dumb enough to dream, he'll take it.

Two cool, steady fingers come tracing over the curve of his shoulder. The touch is shocking in how erotic it is - Lex has touched him many times, but never anyplace that could be innocently described as _under his clothes_. So far, every touch of his hands has been as platonic as it's possible for Lex to be, and though his eyes told a vastly different story and though Clark has actually had his cock between those lips, nothing seems to really count before this. Fingertips bleed softly across his arm and then back, circling around to cup the back of his head again, just to hold him there. The fist in his hair unclenches, so Clark figures he has a little room to look - he lifts his head just a little and finds Lex's eyes, far above him again. He's close now, his belt is right there, Clark could...

"Do you want me to?" he asks, licking his lips in case Lex is somehow unclear about what he means.

Those storming eyes tell the real story, still, even as that wicked mouth smiles and lies. "Not right now. Just think about it. It's going to happen today, sometime, and I want you to think about it." Lex draws a thumb over Clark's cheek and his smile turns sharper, more real. "There might be a test."

Lex lets him go after that, and Clark fights to stay on the pedestal instead of using every superpower he has to convince Lex that it'd be a good idea to just get straight to business, never mind this whole Eliza Doolittle thing he's got going on. But it's not long before the tailors come back, and Clark winds up feverishly calling up baseball stats in his mind, because he's standing here in underwear that's really way too small and he's not exactly _idle_ , if it can be called that. He's the color of a fresh cooked lobster in no time, and he actually hears Lex laugh when they start putting him into the suit parts.

The bastard.

"You're a bastard," Clark informs him, once all the fitting and pinning is done and the tailors have whisked off again.

Lex laughs again. "They were many things, but my parents weren't single when they had me."

"I meant as in _jerk,_ " Clark retorts, resisting the urge to turn around and say it to his face. There's a perfectly good mirror to glare at right in front of him.

"I know what you meant," Lex chuckles, and then the soft pads of his fingers trail over the small of Clark's back and Clark nearly falls down as all the blood in his body rushes to a single point. "Once that suit's finished, we're going to have to stop somewhere private. I like anticipation as much as the next guy, but after a few years it plateaus."

Clark can't argue that, as the buzz in his own mind is drowning out everything else at the _suggestion_ of improper touching. It only takes a half hour to get the finishing touches on everything and have it all packed into bags. Clark can't help but notice that there appear to be too many bags for just one suit, but unless there's a French maid outfit hidden in here somewhere, he can't think of anything he'd object to. So he shrugs, figures if he sees anything like lace he can just laser it to death, and lifts everything into his arms.

Between the trunk and the miniscule backseat of Lex's car, they get everything packed in. Clark jams the seat back and stands up to find Lex looking at him speculatively. He lifts his keys, letting them jingle silver in the air. "You wanna drive?"

Clark squints at him, suspicious.

"Might be your only chance today," Lex says, enticing.

He can't help the smile that forces its way onto his face, so he doesn't try. Clark lifts his hand and catches the keys out of the air, and they switch sides. When Clark drops into the bucket seat, he can instantly tell that the memory foam (or whatever they call it) hasn't shaped itself for him. The imprint of Lex's body is all over this car, and he doesn't glare when Lex slides into the passenger seat. He just grits his teeth, shoves the key in the lock, opens up the engine and roars out of the lot.

"Easy!" Lex snaps, grabbing Clark's wrist.

Clark grins at the road and shifts up, tearing past a soccer mom's minivan. "You're the one that taught me to drive a Ferrari," he accuses.

Lex's grip doesn't ease. "I taught you to show respect to fine machinery. You wanna drag? Get your own damn car."

Clark reluctantly slows down when Lex points out that he doesn't know where he's even going. He follows the instructions he's given, then, taking corners fast enough to make his mother scowl but not fast enough to get himself booted out of the driver's seat. When he goes too fast, Lex has to brace a hand on the door, and Clark feels a selfish little thrill at having affected mister cool and collected billionaire. It's childish, maybe, but it doesn't hurt anyone, so Clark indulges.

"Right at the corner," Lex says, "and park."

"You sure?" Clark says, peering around as he pulls up beside a meter. They're in one of the vaguely seedy elbows of downtown Metropolis, just verging on the old city but not quite in Suicide Slum yet. Still, it's not the kind of place that a million-dollar cherry red sports car is going to go unnoticed.

Lex climbs out and straightens his suit. "Nobody's going to touch my car," he says, the way people say _the sun rises in the east_.

Clark tosses him the keys and joins him on the pavement. "But how long before somebody decides to freelance for the Inquisitor?"

"Don't worry about it," Lex smirks, touching Clark's jaw with fleeting fingers. "They're used to it."

When Lex takes his hand and leads him up to a nondescript door, Clark follows as docilely as possible. He's fully aware that whatever is coming next, it'll probably be designed to make him as crazy as possible, but if Lex says this place values discretion, Clark knows better than to question. Few people know discretion better than Lex Luthor.

They walk down a hall and check in with a bouncer who remembers Lex from a long time ago. Clark listens to them trade a few polite words, and then Lex gets two keys and the heavy metal door beside them buzzes. Lex draws him through and the wave of steam that hits Clark in the face is rife with sweat and come, cologne and linen and money.

"You brought me to a secret elite bathhouse," Clark says, just to bring it back to earth.

"Shut up," Lex says, and Clark swears he can hear a smile in it.

There are rows and rows of what looks like tiny private changing rooms. Lex disappears into one of them with both keys, and Clark huffs a sigh and goes into his. There are towels and lockers and a wide bench along one wall that's pretty obviously not for sitting, and Clark can feel the redness climbing up his cheeks. He figures that superspeeding out of his clothes would be cheating, so he crams his jeans and t-shirt into the locker at a more normal pace. He only hesitates for a second before peeling out of the briefs - it's not like they covered all that much anyway, and God help him if Lex caught him trying to sneak some modesty.

When he comes out into the big main room, he's gripping the waist of his towel tightly. It's not tiny but it isn't exactly a bath sheet.

Lex is reclining on one of many white chairs, talking with another manicured young professional. They're relaxed with each other, Clark can see, and he immediately wonders if Lex has slept with this man. Two sets of eyes sweep toward him and the manicured guy whistles, low and drawn out.

"Believe me," Lex grins, standing up. "You're not his type." The way his towel folds across his hips suggests a roman senator, a kilted centurion. Maybe it's one too many art history classes, but Clark knows he's supposed to be the Ganymede here, so he ducks his head and waits for Lex to tell him what to do.

Lex runs two gentle fingertips over the swell of Clark's mouth, and even though that's technically an over-clothing area, it still feels horribly intimate. It might be the first time that Lex has directly touched Clark's lips, and the white noise that produces in his mind is almost enough to make him forget there's somebody else here.

"Come on," Lex murmurs. "Let's go find someplace comfortable."

They pass through wide rooms, each with a different theme. There's a sub-lit crystal blue pool, a brick and whitewashed concrete sauna, a faux hot spring with greenery, and more beyond. Each room has a few people in it, and Clark has the sense that there would be a lot more if they had come here in the evening. Sometimes they're actively having sex, sometimes they're getting ready for it, sometimes they're taking some form of drug. Clark resists burning it away with his eyes.

"I won't take you downstairs," Lex grins. "I considered it, but seeing the shock on your face really wouldn't be worth being expected to actually do something down there."

Clark's mind instantly fills with the most nefarious kinds of sexual torture devices known to man, which is probably exactly what Lex wanted, but he can't help himself. It's never been clear to him what exactly people get out of that stuff, but he's seen enough on the internet to picture for a half second a nightmare vision of himself strapped to a big black cross, Lex standing over him with a kryptonite bullwhip. He almost laughs, but the shudder of revulsion shakes him out of it at the last second.

Lex catches the motion out of the corner of his eye and laughs, drawing eyes as they walk on.

Honestly, the only thing keeping Clark's libido interested and alert is the fact that, as they walk along, he gets to watch Lex's naked back. This is, without question, the longest he's ever been exposed to Lex's nakedness at a time. Every time he feels someone else's eyes from the corners of the room, the pale, leanly muscled body in front of him draws his eyes, his attention, even his hand once or twice, before he remembers that he's supposed to be an ingénue. When he thinks of how much a place like this has to cost, he loses track of the math in how he can just barely see a hint of Lex's hipbone as it disappears under the white towel. The curve of his bare head, always naked, breaking the clothing rule again. The way his legs are bare, too, like a swimmer. Clark had always privately suspected that Lex out of clothes wouldn't be much different than Lex in clothes, as far as demeanor goes, and he's sure now that he was right. When the towel comes off (it must be coming off, there has to be a point in the very near future where it's coming off) he'll have every bit the bearing of a king as he does right now.

A frowning king.

"What's wrong?" Clark asks, in the spirit of their deal.

Lex crosses his arms over his chest, looking thoughtful. "I can't find a place I want."

Clark perks up. It's supposed to be Lex's choice, but if he can't make one... "Maybe you're thinking too hard," he suggests, stepping close enough for a private conversation. He almost puts his hand on Lex's shoulder, but stops himself at the last minute - too presumptuous. "I'm actually kind of surprised. I thought I'd be face first in your pillows by now." It's a joke, but Clark blushes hard, because he really did think that. He's never seen the bedroom at the penthouse, but that didn't stop him from imagining it – not when he made the call last week, and not when he was sixteen years old, either.

"Oh, you did," Lex says, turning an arched eyebrow toward him. This is a whole different view for Clark, broad chest and bare stomach straight down to the white rim of the towel. He yanks his gaze up again and is knocked a little breathless by the way Lex is watching him. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" Clark blurts out before he can realize how dumb that sounds.

Lex presses close, runs an open palm along Clark's waist. His skin is damp with the mist here, flush and heated. "What you thought it'd be like," he murmurs into Clark's ear. "When you called me, what did you think I'd make you do?"

Clark's throat goes dry. He badly wants to touch Lex, and as it hasn't been forbidden, he thinks he can get away with maybe something innocent-ish. He closes a hand around the pale curve of one shoulder and wets his lips. "Um. I was pretty sure that, um. We'd. Y'know."

"Fuck," Lex says, smooth as silk against his ear.

"Yeah," Clark agrees, nodding like an idiot. "I thought you'd be, I thought you'd probably make me do things that I wouldn't usually but... I thought it'd probably be sexy anyway."

"Because of me," Lex guesses, and Clark can feel the grin there, pressed against his neck.

He nods, finding it hard to speak.

Lex presses his hip against Clark's cock, cups his hand behind Clark's neck. "Because if I'm doing something, you think it's hot, no matter what it is."

Another nod, and this one is a very definitely guilty confession. Clark swallows against the dryness in his throat. He can feel Lex's erection now, the bump and press of it against his hip through the terrycloth. He makes sure he's not gripping Lex's shoulder too hard, because he's sure he could do some damage right now if he wasn't -

"For a long time," Lex says. "Since we were kids."

"You were n-never a kid," Clark stutters, biting his lip.

Lex gives a low half of a laugh, a thump of sound that's not really amusement. "I was going to make you suck me off in front of these strangers," he says, so soft. Clark's knees almost give out right there, but Lex's hand is hard in his hair, holding him close, and he can't bear to detach from all that soft, clear skin. Lex rubs his cheek along Clark's neck, dragging his lips along the skin. "Can you tell me why?" he breathes, but the question's so important.

Clark closes his eyes tightly, so he won't accidentally burn the ceiling, and then nods. "So I know how far I'll go for you."

Lex rolls his hips, then; a nice, long, slow press just where Clark needs it. "Good."

"I'll do it," Clark says, aware he shouldn't be talking. His eyelids are so hot that he thinks he can see through them. "They can... watch me. I will."

He laughs again, a warm, delighted thing this time. It sounds so good that Clark can't resist pressing his own hips forward, using them to ask, to plead. Lex bites his earlobe too hard, hard enough to hurt a normal person. To Clark it only feels like a secret they're sharing, hidden in plain sight. "Now I don't want it anymore," Lex tells him, still laughing. "I thought I did, but now I'm pretty sure I'd have to have them all killed."

"Oh," Clark says, starting to sweat. It's not that it's all that hot in here, not for somebody who's been pretty damn close to a sun, but that doesn't mean his body doesn't have certain natural responses to stress. "But not now, right?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest with you," Lex says, biting at his skin between words. "I might need to pull off your towel right here, and then they'd see too much. _Curtains._ "

Lex teasing him over a question of murder is unnerving enough without the added possibility that it might yet become not a joke, so Clark makes a fast peruse of the people here. Nobody's watching, so he wraps an arm around Lex's waist and speeds them back into the changing area. The guy has gone and it's just them, so Clark is spared having to choose which of their rooms to go into. The world resolves around them to a normal speed and Lex pushes out of his arms. "I hate that," he scowls. "I hate when you do that."

"I'm sorry," Clark winces, holding out his hands. "I thought you'd want to go back to -"

Lex grabs his wrist and drags him over to the far change room, the one Lex chose when he got here. "Don't do it again," he orders, opening the door and hauling Clark inside. "Not today."

"I won't," Clark hurries to say, trying hard to be where Lex wants him. "I promise, I won't, I'm sorry."

It's identical in here to the room Clark had, and Lex pushes him down onto the bench without hesitation. He puts his hand in Clark's hair and forces his face to turn up. "Your towel stays on," Lex instructs, his cheeks flushed and his eyes hooded. "You don't touch until I say; you don't move until I say. Understand?"

Clark nods as best he can, which isn't much. "Yes, Lex."

"Open your mouth."

Hesitant, Clark does as he's told. He chooses something between _breathing_ and _dentist,_ and when two of Lex's fingers slide inside, Clark can't keep his eyes open. He closes on them without thinking, but he has the presence of mind to just allow them to rest there until Lex tells him to suck. He does his best, which he thinks is pretty good, tonguing along the middle and swallowing around them. Every two seconds he has to remind himself that he's not to move his hands, that he has to keep them still and not reach for Lex's hips, not pull away the towel. When Lex starts to move his hand, to push his fingers in and out of Clark's mouth, it's easier to remember to just take it.

"That's good," Lex says softly, steel in his voice under Luthor velvet. "You look good like this, Clark."

Clark keeps his eyes tightly closed and tries to allow Lex further back in his mouth. _Stop talking,_ he thinks. _Don't say that._

"I'd pay extra for pictures," Lex murmurs, his voice shallow and breathless. "No property taxes for two years."

He hasn't said to stop, so Clark settles for lightly scraping his teeth over Lex's fingers.

"One picture," Lex groans. "Five years. Answer me."

Clark pulls away and ducks his head, unable to meet those eyes. "I can't. You know I can't."

Lex drags on Clark's hair again, pushing his face forward. When Clark's nose bumps against the unbearably soft skin of Lex's stomach, he nuzzles into it so he won't have to look up. "You said _can't,_ " Lex whispers. "Not _won't._ "

"Same difference," Clark mumbles into the skin under his lips.

"Not to me," Lex breathes. "Use your teeth. Take off my towel."

Clark does that, tugging at the terrycloth. It smells like water and Lex's smooth cologne. When it falls away, there comes the sharp, strong scent of salt and chili peppers, like some faraway exotic thing that Clark would never know existed if it weren't for Lex. (Once they made a bet that Lex couldn't sink the eight ball using a two-bank shot. He did it, so Clark had to try some kind of tentacle sushi. It was pretty good, but Clark had insisted that Lex only liked it because it was purple.)

This has been a long time coming. Clark keeps his eyes closed for a long minute because Lex hasn't told him to do anything else, and he thinks of all the things that have led them to this. He thinks of being hit by a Porsche, of the marriages and the mind-altering substances, of friends and parents and the day Lex finally found out who Clark was.

This isn't the way he thought it'd happen, but he'll take it. He's got to take it while there's still time.

He opens his eyes and sees the naked body in front of him like a gift, and it's all he can do not to immediately dive for that thin, pale skin. It's one thing to dream, in a vague way, about Lex being pure skin everywhere. It's something entirely different to sit here with his nose a half-inch away and know for a fact that the meteors took every bit of hair on his body. Clark knows he isn't the only person who's ever known this about Lex first-hand, and again, he finds himself burning with jealousy. The urge to protect Lex has been strong since they met, but right now it's like somebody cranked a dial in Clark's head: Normal, Protective, Paranoid, Kill Everyone Who Looks At Him.

"What are you thinking right now?" Lex asks, brushing Clark's hair behind his ear. "Be honest."

Clark hesitates. He should be truthful, but the chances that Lex will put a halt to everything right this second if Clark says what he's thinking are probably about 50/50. Not good enough. "The time you got me to eat tentacles."

_"Tako,"_ Lex corrects, his voice reserved and smooth. "Octopus sushi. It's a delicacy."

_"Tako,"_ Clark repeats obediently.

Lex brushes a thumb across his lips, voice like whispering satin. "Good. Now suck it. And be nice, Clark."

Clark stares at the body in front of him for a second, unable to believe he really heard that, that it didn't come out of his own head, that he isn't dreaming. When Lex tugs at his hair, he wets his lips and tries to breathe, to ignore the suddenly insistent throbbing of his dick, straining against his towel. "Okay," he says, sliding forward on the bench, situating himself. "Can I hold onto your hips?"

"All right," Lex says, petting his hands over Clark's neck, the back of his head. "But don't use your hands for anything else. I want your mouth."

Clark's eyes almost cross. "Okay," he says, ragged and deliberate. "Okay." He licks his lips and leans forward, presses his open mouth against the slick head of Lex's cock, and hopes it all goes to plan. It's bigger than he thought; it makes him open wide and breathe through his nose, panicked, before his brain overrides his instincts and reminds him that he doesn't have to breathe. Lex said to be nice, so Clark tries to make it as soft as possible: keep his teeth out of the way, use his tongue as much as he can, whatever he can think of. There's not a lot of room to maneuver, but he takes it slow and taps his tongue against the head, makes open-mouthed kisses over it and clings to those warm, narrow hips. They're the best anchor he has.

Lex tastes clear and pure. It makes Clark a little dizzy. He thinks that, now that he's been this close, he could stand on the North Pole and breathe really hard, and he'd know that Lex was on the tenth floor of the Gran Melia in Jakarta. He opens a little wider, letting Lex in as far as he can.

Softly, Lex begins to rock his hips. It's just an inch at a time, hardly anything, but it takes things from Clark doing the sucking to Clark just holding on for the ride, and he feels his face go red again. "That's good," Lex whispers, barely making any sound at all. "Take it in. Let me feel the back of your throat."

Clark tries hard, but when that pressure hits the end of his tongue he can't help the reflex that pushes him away. He pulls his head back and coughs, grateful when Lex allows it.

"I wasn't sure that would happen," Lex says, his quiet voice sounding awed.

"Sorry," Clark whispers. "Let me try again."

Lex rubs his thumbs over the back of Clark's neck. "Okay."

He makes it far enough for Lex to actually slide into his throat this time before he has to pull away, his eyes watering, his tongue scratchy and tickling. He coughs again, his lizard brain insisting that he has to breathe, has to get some air, and Clark feels tears slip down his cheeks as he forces his lungs to stay put.

"It's okay," Lex tells him, gentle fingers coming around his throat, massaging gently. The muscles stop spasming and Clark is flushed with gratitude, tries to go right back to it. Lex pushes him back by the shoulders. "Get your breath," he instructs, his voice soft as falling snow.

Clark does that, and feels Lex's thumb brushing the wetness from his cheeks. "Do you want me to keep going?" Clark asks, carefully keeping his eyes closed.

"When you're ready," Lex tells him. Clark feels a soft brush against his forehead and takes a half second to realize that Lex has kissed him, right there, actually kissed his head like he's such a precious child. Part of him wants to rebel, to show Lex that he can be as dirty as anybody else, but part of him has always felt like that child next to Lex's older and wiser experience, and it feels like approval and blessing to be revelled in.

When he's caught his breath again, Clark opens his eyes. Lex is looking down at him, not giving away any of what he's thinking. He's got one elegant hand on his own dick, stroking languidly, his thumb pressing against the head, into the slit before sliding back down. "God, Lex," Clark says, feeling for the nth time like he's too big and clumsy to be allowed in the same room with a man like this. "My turn?"

"Go ahead," Lex says, pulling his hand away.

Clark considers trying to take it all again, but he really wants to get Lex off, so he decides to try something a little more inventive. He tries pressing his tongue at the tip, the way Lex had pressed his thumb. It's not exactly _nice_ , but maybe Lex will like it anyway.

"Clark," Lex growls warningly. "Be careful."

"Do you like it?" he asks, mouthing down the shaft. "I'll be careful. Just tell me what to do."

Lex's hands go hard in his hair again, gripping the strands in warm fists. "I liked it," he grudgingly allows.

Clark immediately does it again, flicking his tongue in and around. He's rewarded by a sharp gasp from Lex, a tightening of the fingers in his hair. He attacks the spot as hard as he thinks he's allowed to, sucking greedily.

Lex makes the smallest sound, deep in the back of his throat. It's dismayed, almost - broken up and stifled, but it's there. Clark made that sound come to be, he knows, and he rubs his thumbs across Lex's hips and lets his cheeks hollow out as he coaxes more of that taste onto his tongue. His cheeks are flaming red, he knows, because he can feel Lex's eyes on him, but if he can get even one more sound like that, if he can guess just the right way to make Lex be pleased with him, he'll do it. It's one of the few things that're his to give.

"Tell me," Lex murmurs then, breathless and raw, pulling his hips away. He closes his cock in his hand and presses closer, wringing at himself, up and down, knuckles white. "Tell me you've never done this before. Say it's your first time, Clark, even if you have to lie, just say it."

Clark makes his mouth as soft as possible, brushing the tip of Lex's cock as it peeks in and out of his hand. His whole face is in shadows; Clark can't really see him. "You're the first person I ever did this to," he whispers. "It's the truth."

"I know," Lex says through his teeth, and then straddles Clark's lap without a second's hesitation. He keeps stripping his cock, faster and faster, and his face is so close, his eyes brilliant, blinding blue. "I always know," he breathes, and in the moment that the first drops start to hit Clark's belly, Lex leans in and kisses his mouth. It's open and giving and perfect, and Clark wraps his arms around Lex's back, holds him close and kisses him with all the desperation he's ever felt to make Lex happy.

Lex shudders in his arms for long, painfully good seconds. Clark can't imagine wanting anything other than this ever again.

By the time Lex finally drags himself upright again, he's smiling that same old grin he used to get when he'd put one over on the principal to help Chloe print an article, when he would give Clark tickets to some ridiculously expensive event and Clark couldn't find an excuse to say no: victorious, warm, unguarded, the kind that made Clark want to be his friend in the first place. "Man could get used to that," he says, slurring a consonant or two.

Clark glows with pride. He can feel it thrumming through his chest, filling him up, making his spine straighter. "I don't think you could afford it," he teases.

"Probably not," Lex laughs. "You're not a cheap date, and I'd know."

Clark bites his bottom lip, because by some miracle they seem to have come through that unscathed and he refuses to be the one to fuck it up.

Lex climbs up to his feet and stretches his arms up to the ceiling. Clark enjoys the view as Lex pads into the shower stall. "Go on," Lex says. "We won't both fit in this one, and we have to get going."

Clark blinks. "Um."

"And no cheating," Lex instructs, soaping himself down, not even looking to see Clark's growing dismay. "I'll know if you do."

Clark manoeuvres himself around the shower and back into his clothes with an intense amount of difficulty and a growing sense of resentment. By the time ten minutes have gone by and he's crammed back into his jeans, he's completely reversed his position on ever doing anything nice for Lex again. This is cruel and unusual punishment. Technically he's not sure that the Geneva Convention applies to aliens, but if it did, Lex would be in serious trouble. Clark stands in the waiting room, sweating through his clothes, tiny briefs tucked into his pocket in a vague attempt at concealing his erection by creating a _second_ bulge. It's not working too well, and Clark fumes and leaves some defiant fingerprints in the brick wall as he taps his fingers, waiting.

When Lex emerges from his room, he looks like he stepped out of GQ. His collar is open by precisely the right number of buttons, his cuffs are unlinked under his jacket, and the steam has softened his creases just enough that he looks perfectly at ease. "Come on," he says, tugging lightly at Clark's sleeve, a teasing smile on his face. "You have an appointment. Don't want to be late."

Clark's curiosity just barely overrides his urge to get bitchy, so he follows Lex out to the car without a word. He doesn't _like_ it, but it seems best.

~

Lex drives this time, and Clark refrains from pointing out that he is at least as much of a maniac as Clark was being earlier, if not more so. They squeal through tax brackets, climbing through the ranks until they arrive in the heart of the island. Right next to the high double doors of Spiffany's, there's an equally expensive looking shop that Lex parks in front of like he owns the street. (He might.) He and Clark get all the garment bags out of the car and take them inside.

"Mister Luthor," says a throaty, feminine voice. Clark juggles the bags so he can see and finds Lex air-kissing with an achingly beautiful woman in, perhaps, her late forties. Her hair is a brown so dark as to be almost black, and she's wearing a summer dress that accents her generous assets with just the right amount of class. Her heels are so high that Clark wonders how it is that she doesn't fall over, but she glides along like she was born on them.

"Emily," Lex murmurs. "I'm sorry, I don't get to see you much these days."

She waves that away. "You're married to your work now. I know how it is with men like you; I married two of them."

Lex laughs, polite but warm. "Sure you won't go for a third?" Clark gathers that this woman is a paid professional, and that she has managed the miraculous feat of getting Lex to like her anyway. She must be really, really good at her job.

"I told you, get me the Hope diamond on a gold band and we'll talk." She grins at him, and then the two of them turn to Clark. "Oh," Emily says, pressing a hand to her throat. "Oh, Lex."

"Now, now," he cautions. His voice is light, but anybody who knows him can hear the steel under it. Clark can, and he wonders if Emily does too. Lex touches her wrist. "He's spoken for."

"And we must ensure that everyone despairs of _that,_ " Emily insists, and steps toward Clark with a narrowed eye. "Why don't you go change into your suit, honey? I'll need to see it before we start."

Clark presses his lips shut. He doesn't like this woman, but he was raised a certain way and she's not going to change who he is, so he puts his hand out. "My name is Clark Kent," he says firmly, insisting on a reply.

To her credit, she hesitates only a moment before taking his hand. "Emily Sheridan," she says. "I apologize, Mister Kent; I must have forgotten my manners at home this morning. It's nice to meet you."

"You too," Clark says, feeling slightly mollified. He turns to Lex then and lowers his voice. "Can I ask?"

"Sheridan's is a salon," Lex explains. "We're both getting a full workup."

"Oh," Clark says, not a little flummoxed. "Um."

Emily lays a finger along her jaw. "We _are_ a men's salon, Mister Kent. If you wondered."

Clark feels mollified again, despite the fact that he's absolutely certain he'd never live this down if Pete ever found out. But it's Lex's day, which means he gets what he wants, and if what he wants is company while he gets a facial peel, Clark's just going to have to find a way for it to happen. Now all he has to do is think of a reason that he has to cut his own hair.

It's a three-hour process. Clark had no idea that personal grooming could take so long, or had so much to take _off_. Some of it doesn't require anything on his part - he lets them put goo on his face and massage his hands and soak his feet, which is even kind of nice. He winds up accomplishing most of the super-hair sleight of hand by bouncing his heat vision off a series of mirrors just as the scissors or clippers or, God help him, _wax_ touches down. (He does not let them below his collar because that is undignified and that is all there is to it.) Their tools give him a guide to follow as far as where to aim, and after a few mishaps, he gets the hang of it and the stylists seem satisfied. Once his hair is cut they put styling stuff in it and dry it, which also takes no effort from Clark, and it smells nice. They let him pick a cologne and they bring in a pair of brand new black dress shoes they say Lex had specifically selected.

Not that Clark would know, because he hasn't actually _seen_ Lex since they arrived.

Emily walks in toward the end, and claps her hands when she sees him. "Oh, if you don't look a picture. Lex will be _beside_ himself."

"You think so?" Clark asks her, unable to help the smile.

"Honey," she says, linking her arm with his. "I _know_ so. Here, put these on."

She hands him a pair of sunglasses and Clark shakes them out, puts them on and looks at her. "Good?"

"Good," she smiles, and this time Clark really feels she's smirking _with_ him, so he beams at her and follows her gentle lead into the foyer.

Lex stands waiting for them, chatting with a girl at the counter. She hands his black credit card to him and giggles at something he said, and he tucks it into his wallet with a smile. Beside Clark, Emily makes a little sound, and Lex looks up to see them both there together. His eyebrow rises all the way up, and he doesn't bother hiding it when he looks Clark over. "Emily," he says, not looking at her. "Your work is spectacular. It's not often I have the pleasure of telling someone that."

Clark flushes and Emily pats his arm. "We work with what we have," she says modestly.

Though Clark is sure that Lex has also had some kind of treatment, he looks indistinguishable from the person Clark left three hours ago. Maybe it wouldn't be noticeable on him, maybe it was only maintenance of some kind, but he just looks like Lex. Clark walks over to stand by his side and is stunned into immobility when Lex leans in and kisses his cheek.

Emily beams at them, and Clark turns purple.

"Dinner awaits," Lex says.

Clark blinks at him. "We're going to dinner?"

"You didn't think I'd starve you, did you?" Lex smiles, a tiger in the grass. "It's just a couple of friends."

Clark waves at Emily and hurries to follow Lex out of the building. "You mean _your_ friends?"

"I don't mean Chloe and Pete."

~

Sunset in Metropolis is beautiful. The air is clean as they step out of the restaurant, fresh from a brief pattering of rain.

Lex snatches the keys out of the valet's hand, and the kid almost jumps out of his red vest. "Your car, Mister... Luthor..." Lex pays no attention to him and stalks over to the driver's side.

Clark, well fed, hugely pleased with himself and thus in a generous mood, tips ten bucks. "Thank you," he says, drawing the kid's grateful eyes.

"Thanks for visiting La Place," he calls hopefully.

Clark waves at him as he climbs into the passenger seat and almost has the door closed when Lex roars off into the streets.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, and Clark wallows in his smugness. They're going to the penthouse now, and Clark's pretty sure Lex wasn't expecting dinner to end this way.

"Clark," Lex says, his liquid menace filling the air between them.

Clark remains unfazed. For once, he's won one of their strange contests, and that's not leaving his ego any time soon. "Lex."

He grips the wheel hard, racing through streetlights, breaking a dozen laws a minute. "I imagine you thought that was clever."

"Well, it didn't take a rocket scientist, but I was kind of proud of it." Once Clark had relaxed into the role of Lex's flavour of the month, it was pretty fun to let other people carry the conversation while he got bold under the tablecloth. And of course it drove Lex completely insane, which is what prompted the exodus. Yeah, Clark's proud. It's not every day you get to make one of the richest men in the world haul you off for sex.

Lex turns a corner with precision control. Four cars honk angrily behind him. "Do you realize what it would have meant if I'd lost control in there?" he asks, running his fingers down the wheel's bumps and divots. "You think I don't know what it means, that _you_ brought this deal to _me_?"

Clark's blood turns to ice. "What?" he asks carefully.

If Lex notices the sudden drop in temperature, he doesn't acknowledge it, his eyes burning up the road. "You were asking for it, Clark. All the times you lied and twisted things around, every time you hid things from me, I could have... if you knew the ways I _planned_ to get it out of you... I never did. But you kept pushing, just like you pushed me in there. What did you think I'd do, Clark? What were you _hoping_ I'd do?"

Clark's veins have gone from arctic to lava in the space of a few seconds, and he thinks he must be suffering from some kind of shock, as it is the only thing that explains what he says. "You could have," he confesses, the terrible secret he's kept hidden for so long. "Years ago, and I would've..."

"You think I don't know that?" Lex cuts him off, ripping at the road with his tires. "You were a teenager, for Christ's sake, you might as well have been sending engraved invitations. Subtlety has never been your strong point, Clark."

He blinks. "But… if you knew..."

"Your father. My father. My company. I can keep going, if you want." Clark hears the implied meaning: _I could keep coming up with plausible reasons that aren't the truth, and you'd know I was bullshitting you, but why waste my breath?_

There's no reason he should, so Clark decides to save him the trouble. His heart thumps painfully in his chest, but he talk through it. "You didn't want to take advantage of me," he says. "You thought I was too young."

Lex grits his teeth and says nothing, and that's how Clark knows it's the truth.

To escape the tension, he turns to look out the window. The streets flash by, dingy and gray, and Clark blinks. "Wait, this is -"

"Not the penthouse," Lex confirms. "I hope you have your keys."

He does; the metal lump is in his pocket. "I forgot them," Clark says. "I left them at your place."

"You can fly us up to the fire escape," Lex says, a wry, vicious smile curving the corner of his lips. "I'm sure you've left your house keys in Lebanon before or something."

"But," Clark tries, sounding ridiculous even to his own ears. "My super doesn't like to, um." The look Lex gives him is so scathing that he feels his cheeks burn. He drops his head and digs his keys out of his pocket. "Nevermind. Found 'em."

"Anything I want, Clark," Lex says quietly.

"I know."

When they're up the four flights of stairs and Clark's pushing his key into the lock, Lex murmurs under his breath. "No cleaning."

"Why?" Clark asks, holding the door an inch open and not a millimetre more.

Lex gives him a clear-eyed, serious look. "Because I want everything."

Clark pushes the door open and hopes for the best. It's not actually too bad inside, because he knew he'd be leaving for the day, so he'd tidied up and taken out the trash. There are a few dishes in the sink, and he really has to find the time to vacuum, but other than that it's okay. He lets Lex in and locks the three door locks behind them, noting the raised eyebrow it gets him. "It's Clark Kent's apartment," he explains.

"Mm."

Clark follows his usual routine, dropping his keys on the table and lifting the window open, bracing it with an empty mason jar. The smell of rain swirls into the apartment, and Clark belatedly considers the effect. "Tell me if it gets too cold," he says, turning to find Lex.

He's standing beside Clark's couch, looking over the little TV and the mountain of research books on the coffee table. His coat is slung over the arm of the couch, pooling like some terribly expensive oil on the seat. He's undoing his cuff links, putting them in his pocket. "I don't think the temperature will be a problem," he says softly, that same quiet voice he used at the bathhouse.

Instantly, Clark's skin is just as hot as it was then, surrounded by steam. He walks up and tries to touch, but Lex pushes his hands away. "Take your new clothes off first," he instructs, not unkind. "I didn't buy them so you could ruin them."

Clark obeys without thinking. It's good advice. Jacket first, then cuff links, following Lex's lead.

Lex peels out of his shirt, takes off the t-shirt underneath. It's mesmerizing to watch him perform these simple tasks; Clark thinks of French kings who would have valets to help them with all the trappings and extras, to take away the cuff links and watch to be cleaned and polished. Lex puts his watch in his pocket, lays his belt on top of his clothes, leaves his shoes and socks neatly together at the foot of the couch. His feet are smooth and pale, his naked feet on Clark's ugly, threadbare carpet. When he's done with that, he steps close to Clark and starts to take off _his_ watch, and Clark is horrified for a moment that his little fantasy about the valets has been so wrongly turned around. But Lex is firm, won't let him take his hand back, and for the moment it seems that if Lex wants it then it must be. Clark presses his lips together and meekly holds still as Lex fights with the strap.

"There's a trick to it," Clark winces, the trick being that he welded the clasp together after Metallo broke it a month ago, and you have to move it up to get the leather off the prong. The strap tears under Lex's fingers, and Clark winces again, because it's just old. He's been meaning to replace it for about a year now.

Lex puts the pieces down on the table. "Your father's?" he guesses.

"Got it at a thrift store," Clark says. "I just never bothered."

"Mm." Lex turns back to him and starts undoing buttons. "Get your shoes."

Clark toes off his loafers obediently, but it's not easy because Lex is being distracting, smoothing his hands over Clark's chest and pulling at his shirt. This is a little too close to his own head, here in his narrow apartment with his old couch from the barn loft. It's too soft, how Lex hooks his thumbs into the corners of the shirt and pushes it down off Clark's shoulders. This should be rougher, he should be giving orders, and it should be mind-meltingly hot. Instead there's an obscure pain somewhere under Clark's heart.

The fastest way to stop that, he knows, is to make Lex aware of it. Lex Luthor does not do real emotions. Clark lifts his hand and draws his thumb along one pale, smooth cheekbone, cups the back of Lex's head and leans in. He knows he'll be stopped. Emotion happens on Lex's timetable, and when he doesn't want to deal with it, he -

Kisses back.

Lex is soft and willing under his mouth; his hand comes up to curl in Clark's hair, he steps close, he's warm and good and his skin is -

Clark pulls away, his eyes wide. "Lex," he breathes, his heart thumping hard. "What are you doing?"

"It's my day," Lex says, insists, the icy blue of his eyes carving into Clark's composure.

He's so close, and Clark can't make himself move away. For the first time, he lets himself trace the back of Lex's head with delicate fingers, touch like it's meant to be touched. Lex allows it, and it blows Clark's mind that somehow, by some miracle, he's allowed. "Give me something," he whispers. "Tell me what to do to you."

Lex breathes deep, shifts under his hands. "Do you need that?"

"No," Clark admits, wanting another kiss, wanting so many things just like he's always wanted them. "Yes."

"Well, which is it, Clark?" Lex asks softly, and Clark hates that he knows that Lex gets quieter when he's turned on. He can't unknow that, now.

"I want things," he tries to explain. "But I'm not sure I should... take them."

Lex smiles, that bittersweet thing he's been doing all day. Clark could be happy if he just never saw that smile again. "It's my day," Lex repeats. "And in my day, we don't worry about what we _should_ do. We take what we want, and we deal with what happens after, because it might be the only chance we ever have." Lex brushes a careful kiss across his lips, and then another. "So go on, Clark. Take me to bed... or let me go."

Clark doesn't need a minute. He doesn't need to think, and he doesn't second-guess. He wraps his arm around Lex's back and sinks into a deep, serious kiss that should by all rights have been impossible after their first two years knowing one another. It's like water in the desert; as soon as he's decided to take that first kiss, the thought of not taking another is unbearable. They walk together toward the bedroom, knocking things over and stumbling like drunks, wrapped up together.

Clark's choking on the words. He can feel them stuck in his throat, and he vows not to say them. He can show it, he can put it all into his hands and his mouth, but he won't give Lex that burden to carry home. It's only supposed to be one day.

Lex grips his hair, takes his mouth like a savage. He lets himself be led through the door, over to the bed, hands shoving up under Clark's t-shirt and raking over skin. There's no difficulty at all in lifting him off his feet, laying them both down on the soft old mattress, and this time Lex even allows it. Clark looks down at that familiar face against his own pillows - high points of color on his cheeks, stung red lips, the ravenous lustful curve to them that's for Clark, finally, for Clark - and takes a second to fail utterly at dealing.

"What?" Lex demands, tugging at Clark's t-shirt. "It's a little bit late for second thoughts."

Clark ducks his head so he can pull the shirt off, and the bend to his body makes his hips press down. Both of them shiver; Clark can hear the light rush of Lex's breath like it's amplified, shaking the walls. "I'm not," he explains. "Thinking."

"Good," says Lex, and rakes his perfect, elegant nails up the length of Clark's back. It's soft, it kind of tickles, and Clark feels the pull of his skin and knows anybody else would be bleeding right now.

He bends his head and presses his mouth to the soft skin under Lex's ear. "Go ahead," he murmurs, kissing his way down. "Try again."

Lex makes some impossible sound, some moan or breath that Lex Luthor would never make, and lifts one knee so his hips cradle Clark's. His fingers carve heavy against Clark's back, leaving faint, blushing rows in their wake. He sinks the blade of his teeth into Clark's shoulder, too, and Clark couldn't say how hard the bite is, but he can feel heat bleeding into him. He kisses lower, along Lex's collarbone, and indulges himself with the idea that nobody else could do this with Lex and come away unscarred.

"Do it," Lex urges, and he does some twisting thing with his hips that leaves Clark breathless for a long second. "I've waited long enough."

Clark lifts his head, feeling the blush climb his cheeks. "Okay, okay. I just need, um. I don't have any of the..."

Lex digs in the pocket of his pants and presses a flat, clear container into Clark's hand. "God, you are deeply repressed," he says, biting down on Clark's shoulder again.

"What? Why?" Clark drags himself off Lex's body and starts unbuttoning his suit pants. The red Metropolis twilight fills the room; in minutes it'll be gone, dark, but right now Lex's body is painted in it. He looks like a last temptation, the bribe that'll make you sign away your soul. Clark's fingers fumble and he drops the lubricant.

Lex raises an eyebrow as Clark searches it out, rubbing a lazy hand over his stomach. "You're lying in bed with a male of the species asking me why you're repressed for not having lube."

"That's different," Clark mutters, sliding his fingers under Lex's thigh, sure he saw the tube go that way. "You're... Lex."

In a long, languid movement, Lex raises his arms over his head and stretches his back. Clark stares, knowing he's never coming into this room again without seeing that on instant replay. "Can't fuck in pants," Lex smiles, with a suggestive glance down.

Clark drops the container on Lex's stomach and frowns. "Do you have to call it that?" he asks, fingers searching out the button at Lex's waist. "It seems so..."

"Improper?" Lex guesses, laughing, his teeth glinting red as he rests his head against the pillow.

Clark presses his lips together as he draws the zipper down. "Disrespectful."

"You trying to tell me you'll respect me in the morning?" Lex asks, lifting up onto his elbows.

Clark meets his eyes, endures the piercing cynicism without any kind of uncertainty. "Yes," he says firmly, and leans forward. He doesn't look away, even when Lex starts to scowl; he just moves in and kisses him, quick and serious. "I always have."

With a fierce growl, Lex slaps a hand against the back of Clark's neck and rolls them over, presses Clark's body down into his cheap, lumpy mattress. The glow fades from the room, and Lex shoves a hand into Clark's open fly, finding his cock with rough fingers. The first touch of those hands, the first time his deft, competent fingers have held Clark like this, and it's everything Clark thought it would be. He can't hold onto his breath; his vision goes a little dark around the edges as Lex starts to strip him hard. It's unbearable, and Clark closes his eyes fast on the heat instantly raging behind them.

"Don't," Lex snaps, and Clark can feel his face right there, looking down, close enough to share breath. "You don't get to pull your martyred bullshit with me on my time. This is my _turn,_ Clark. Today you give me what I want, when I want it, and you don't get to hold back. You don't get to _pretend_."

Clark's whole body is fitted to this. Lex's hand twists and squeezes, getting exactly what he wants, and there's no way Clark could stop this or try to think through it. "Okay," he pants, making fists in his blanket and squeezing as he tries to keep his hips down, controlled. "Lex, please. I'm..."

"What?" he demands, and licks a warm strip along Clark's jaw. "Gonna come? Don't you dare."

"I'm _sorry,_ " Clark gasps, his hips starting to buck against his will. "Please, Lex - I'm sorry - please - don't..."

Just like that, Lex buries his hand in Clark's pants and squeezes the base of his cock, firm and strong. It's unbearable for a second, and then the rising tide breaks and starts to settle back down, and Lex's hand is a welcome relief.

Clark gulps in air, keeping his eyes closed tight. "Thank - thank you. I won't - do it again. I promise. Oh, Lex."

"See that you don't," Lex murmurs, kissing softly along Clark's neck.

Carefully, Clark tries opening his eyes. When the ceiling does not explode into fire, he looks at Lex with the exact same amount of caution. "Sorry," he says, feeling lame and awkward.

Lex smiles at him fondly. "Stop that. You look fifteen. The time for pederasty is _long_ gone."

"Don't be gross," Clark says, pressing a kiss to Lex's cheek. It's a calculated risk.

"That's nice," Lex tells him, voice like honey. He lets go of Clark's cock and rubs his palm along the length, slow and sinful. "You can do that again, if you want."

Clark shivers and kisses him again, and in an act of supreme cunning and bravery he brushes his fingertips down Lex's stomach, searching out the soft elastic under his fly. When he feels Lex tense up, he presses his mouth to a likely spot under Lex's jaw and kisses. "Can I?" he asks, as polite as he can.

"Take them off first," Lex decides, putting the barest hint of nails into his own hand's ministrations.

It's incredibly distracting, but Clark manages to hook his thumbs into Lex's remaining clothing and push and shove at them until the two of them have to break apart to finish the job. Clark winds up kneeling over Lex on the bed and takes another risk, leans in to kiss at the curve of his hip. "Let me," he says, blush staining his cheeks.

Lex's hand in his hair is starting to feel familiar, almost comforting. "Not for long," he says. "You're too good already."

Clark wastes no time, bathes Lex with his tongue and then pulls him inside, suckling at his taste. Because he's not trying to get Lex off, he feels a little freer about doing what he wants to. Lex didn't say he couldn't use his hands this time, so he runs his palms over the terribly soft and fragile skin at Lex's hip, waist and thigh.

"A million," Lex mumbles softly, his hands carding through Clark's hair, gathering it to curl around his fingers. "Just one picture."

Clark pulls up, grinning. "No pictures, you pervert."

"It's not perversion," Lex counters, tightening his hands, his eyes showing only a sliver of blue iris in all the black. "It's _art_." Clark blushes and looks away, fighting the urge to wave away the compliment. Lex wouldn't like it, he knows. Those hands relax on his hair, and Lex brushes a thumb over his temple. "While you're down there..."

Clark looks up at him. What could he possibly want that Clark isn't already in the middle of?

His eyes are hooded, full of secrets. "You have that lube I gave you?"

With a nod, Clark lifts it up, shows it to him. _Is it that time?_ he wonders. He's never done this before, but it's not like he can be hurt by it. What little reading he did before turning up at the penthouse this morning showed that people need time and careful handling to avoid pain, but he didn't bother to read beyond that. He was sure Lex would know how to deal with it. He's actually kind of curious to try it, and goes so far as to tuck a thumb into his waistband and push.

"You're going to use it now," Lex says, and Clark is completely blindsided when Lex widens his knees just a little - just enough to make his point.

Clark blinks at him, terrified. "You mean you want _me_ to..."

Lex just looks at him, steady, solid. He doesn't bother to explain, and Clark knows he's not going to.

"Lex, I don't..." He struggles for words, uncertain and afraid. "I don't want to _hurt_ you." Worst thing in the world. Worse than any other feeling he's ever had.

"You won't," Lex says, and closes his eyes as he leans back on the pillow. "I'll tell you what to do, when to do it. Just don't get creative," he adds, a sly but genuine smile tugging at his mouth.

Clark blinks at him for another long second, disbelieving. He lifts up and lies alongside Lex, looks over his eyes and the mark on his lip, the familiar angles of his face. Lex looks away, says nothing. It's a kind of permission, and Clark takes it.

"How long has it been?" Clark finally asks, as soft as he can. He rests his hand on Lex's chest, traces the lines and valleys there.

Lex's mouth curls hard, then, that irony-and-cynicism smile that Clark wishes he could wipe away. "Since I let anybody give it to me? Years."

Clark ignores the bitterness of those words and tries to take the meaning. He leans down and kisses a bare patch of skin, licks his way over a pale pink nipple, just to get the taste out of his mouth. When Lex puts a hand in his hair and starts breathing audibly again, Clark bites at him gently, so gently. "Why me?" he asks, so quiet that Lex could pretend not to hear it, if he wanted. If he needed to.

Such a long moment passes that Clark thinks he won't answer. But then, on a soft exhale, he does. "I want you to remember," he breathes. "When you sleep here. When you're with someone else. When you fuck your own hand, when... you've been out saving kittens, or... fighting with me. I want to know you go home. Here. That you see me, like this." He runs his hands over Clark's back, and when Clark looks up at him, he lifts up for a deep, twisting kiss. Clark can taste the need on his lips, the way he bites and pushes.

He does his best to give whatever it is that Lex wants. It seems to only make him more demanding, and Clark can't really be surprised. He pushes softly, to see if Lex will lean back against the pillows. When it works, he gropes blindly for the little container and crushes it in his fingers so he won't have to pull away long enough to look. It leaks all over his hand, and he quickly slicks his cock before pushing his hand between Lex's legs. "You have to open," he whispers against that mouth.

Lex draws a knee up and they arrange themselves comfortably. "Did you just destroy that bottle?" Lex whispers.

Clark makes his fingers as gentle as rain, rubbing and pressing as best he can. "Yeah," he says, biting his lip to concentrate.

"That is so fucking hot," Lex says, and flicks his tongue against Clark's teeth.

Clark pulls his face away. "Stop that. You're supposed to be telling me what to do."

"You're doing fine," Lex growls, and lifts up to kiss Clark's mouth again.

Giving in, Clark kisses him back down to the pillows and rubs circles into Lex's skin. He can be patient, Clark reminds himself. Even if Lex is lifting into his hand, pulling at his hair, even if Lex doesn't seem to give a damn what happens so long as he gets what he wants, Clark's not willing to risk hurting him.

Finally, Lex breaks away, panting against Clark's mouth. "Inside," he demands, punctuating the word with his teeth. "Do it."

Clark swallows heavily, and presses a finger into him.

"Remember this," Lex hisses, overwhelming. "I want you to remember who belongs here."

Clark knows the answer to that. He works Lex open with his fingers, kisses his mouth and sighs. "You."

"Good," Lex says, arching up, turning his face away. "That's good."

The room is too hot and every word Lex says just makes it hotter. Clark wants to suck him again, but he'd have to leave behind the chance to kiss him, to press his nose behind the curve of Lex's ear and breathe in. "I love the way you smell," he murmurs, not thinking.

Lex turns toward him and kisses him hard, punishing. He's not hurting anybody but himself, but Clark imagines he knows that. "Quit stalling," Lex tells him, sharp and defensive, though his very next words are gentle. "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Clark lies.

Lex presses his hands to Clark's face, runs them around his back. "Don't be. I'll help you." He presses a kiss to Clark's mouth, something softer, and that's what Clark wanted. He drinks up that kiss, drowns in the sweetness of it. Lex wanting to help... it's been too long.

They arrange themselves again; Lex hooks his knee over Clark's hip and guides him where he needs to go. "You're big," Lex warns, "so go slow. I'll tell you if you need to slow down or speed up, and you'd fucking better listen."

"I will," Clark promises, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Don't worry."

Lex grins, and sharp though this one is, it's full of pure satisfaction. "I'm not worried."

Clark breathes deeply, deliberately. "Makes one of us."

"Don't think," Lex instructs, shifting underneath him. He holds Clark's dick in his hand, draws him down and fits them together. "Just do it," he says, kissing Clark's mouth.

It's impossible. That's his first thought, as he pushes his hips forward: it is impossible that this should be so perfect, should feel so unbelievably good, and nobody is on red kryptonite or controlled by a monster or a time lord. Lex's body is an inferno, too good to be good, and Clark can't focus on anything except sinking deeper.

"Slow down," Lex growls, interrupting Clark's blinding bliss.

"Sorry, sorry." Clark halts his hips and buries his face in Lex's neck so he can catch the smell of him again, cool and hot.

Lex is sprawled elegantly across the bed, an arm draped over Clark's neck. "Don't _stop_ ," he says softly, deeply. "Just... slower."

Bit by bit, Clark moves again, and when his hips are snug against Lex's and he's buried deep, he suddenly shivers all the way down. "God. Lex."

The hand in Clark's hair tightens hard with the motion. "Move," he instructs, and Clark feels the thump of Lex's cock against his stomach. "Now."

Carefully, as gently as he can, Clark starts to stroke in and out. Lex clutches at him, at his shoulders and cock, and Clark lifts up to watch his face as he closes himself away. Clark's seen it happen enough to know it: eyes closed, teeth gritted together, Lex breathes harshly and fights away anything except the pleasure he's chasing. He tries to kiss Lex's mouth, but he turns his face away just enough that Clark can only reach his cheek, the edge of his jaw.

It's fucking maddening. Clark's been in this too many times with him, been shut out and pushed away just two seconds shy of really meaning something, and he's reacting before his mind catches up. He pushes hard with his hips, in, in, grinding carefully against the soft flesh. Lex gasps and claws at him, which is satisfying, but not near enough.

Clark catches one of his wrists and holds it down by his head.

Lex's eyes fly open and lock with him, instantly. "Let go," he demands, not even bothering to move his hand.

Slowly - slow enough to make his point - Clark releases his wrist. The sparks that fly between their eyes are hot, dangerous, but Clark refuses to look away. He holds on; he presses his hips up, hard, harder.

Lex lifts his other hand over his head and holds it there, and this time he doesn't look away.

Instantly, Clark's fighting back the words again. They're choking him. He wants to write them into Lex's skin, but he doesn't dare, because there's nothing that would make Lex put a stop to this faster, and Clark couldn't bear that yet. This might not be everything he could want, but it's enough. It'll have to be enough.

He watches Lex's face as he starts to move again. He takes in every detail, memorizes how this looks, how it feels. He can't remember ever having seen Lex this open: chin up, head on, unflinching. Of course, it's totally different from anybody else. People are supposed to look loving or happy or fierce, doing this; only Lex could be this _intense_. Clark realizes that he's made this with his hands, his mouth, and feels incomparably humbled – like the first person he ever saved. Clark feels the air between them, humid and hot, pressing down; he has to say _something_.

"I want to hear you," is what comes out of his mouth. Clark's a little surprised to hear his own voice; it's shaking and wrecked, scratched up with need.

Lex watches him for long seconds, his body speaking for him. He's so hard, wet against Clark's belly, trying to hide the shiver that runs along his body. His whole chest is flushed pink and pale, right down his belly; it's gorgeous. He should be painted, like the rounded limbs of saints and icons. Finally he bites his lip and almost closes his eyes - not quite. "Clark," he whispers.

It's the hottest word Clark has ever heard, his own name on Lex's perfect lips.

"God," Clark says, shuddering, and can't stop himself from pushing a little harder, a little stronger. "You're so. So good, Lex." He can't stop himself from leaning down, gathering a kiss off that mouth.

"Harder," Lex murmurs into his mouth, and cups the back of his neck.

Clark's helpless against a request like that, lets a little bit more control slip loose. His heart feels battered and bruised, pounding desperately in his chest, and he kisses Lex again while he still can get it, while it's still so full of meaning. Lex gives up kisses like spun sugar; Clark only has them for a second and then they're melted away in hot breath and soft focus.

"Lex," he hears himself say, lost in the body below him. "I wanna tell you."

Those vague blue eyes sharpen up for that, a little wild around the edges. He doesn't say anything, though, and Clark supposes that's because he's genetically programmed to stop this kind of confession before it starts.

"Don't worry," he says, kissing Lex's mouth. "I won't."

Lex wraps his arms around Clark's shoulders and kisses him hard. Clark feels the faintest hint of a groan edge from Lex's throat, and he knows it's time. They have the rest of the night; surely they can get one more. This can't be all. He reaches between them and finds Lex's dick with his fingers, slips in the wetness there and feels his own cock leap at the knowledge that he made that, that it's for him. "I want you to come," he says, only blushing a little. He starts to move his hand in time with his body, making that work as well as he can through the sensation crowding at him, wringing him out. "Lex, please. I need you."

"Say it again," Lex whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Clark presses against him, fucks him harder, can't hold back. "I _need_ you," he groans, meaning every word he says. "Please, please, I need to feel you, please..."

"Oh, God, Clark."

The force of it shakes them both. Clark loses himself in it, knowing only the heat on his fingers and the sound of Lex's breath in his ear, the press of fingers in his back. For long, long minutes, that's all that matters.

After that, there's nothing.

~

Nothing, that is, until Lex's soft voice creeps in at the edges. "Clark. Clark. Wake up."

"Mm?" Clark pries an eye open and discovers that he's wrapped around a pillow and there's a soft light in the room.

Lex is crouched beside the bed, and Clark can see that although he's wearing his shirt, it's still unbuttoned. "It's six a.m."

"What?!" Clark sits bolt upright in bed, remembering too late that he's still completely nude. He blushes but he doesn't bother to cover up - barn door after the horse and all.

Lex stands. He's borrowed a pair of Clark's sweatpants, and his shirt is hanging off his shoulders. "Six. In the morning. We slept in."

"But we still have two hours," Clark insists, reaching for him, catching the edge of the shirt. "Right?"

"Yeah," Lex confirms. "Two hours. So get your ass out of bed and hit the showers. But first, go make coffee. I can't figure out your machine."

"It's a Mr. Coffee," Clark objects, peering up at Lex like he might have forgotten he's a master genius scientist type.

Lex scowls. "There's no unit of measure. You might as well just dump half the can in a filter."

"It's just a half a bag," Clark says, standing up and grabbing a pair of jeans off the back of the door.

"...Coffee comes in bags?"

Clark rolls his eyes and goes out into the kitchen. Lex spends the intervening time examining Clark's CD collection and making disapproving noises, which Clark supposes he's entitled to. He delivers a mug of steaming black caffeine to Lex's hand and warns him for how scalding it's going to be, downs his own cup and pads into the bathroom. He speeds through the shower because he doesn't want to waste a second. When he gets out, Lex is scowling at a VHS copy of Wayne's World.

"Don't start," Clark smiles, towelling his hair dry.

Lex raises his hands. "I didn't say anything."

"Superhearing," Clark reminds him. "Not that I'd need it to hear you think that loud."

Lex raises an eyebrow in a display of pure fooling around, and Clark can't resist walking over and laying a warm kiss on his lips that turns a little savage after a minute.

"I want to go back to the penthouse," Lex murmurs, his hands tucked into the back of Clark's towel. "I could drive us there, but it'd take a little time..."

Clark bares his teeth, grazes them across Lex's ear. "Are you asking me to fly?"

"If you can go _fast_ ," Lex demands, his fingers sneaking further underneath the towel. "I'm not going to be caught on the afternoon edition flying around with Captain Spandex."

"They'll never see us," Clark tells him, backing him carefully up toward the wall. "You wanna get dressed first, or..."

Lex shoves at his shoulders. "If I'm worried about being seen in public with you, I'm definitely not going skinny sky diving. Back off, _wunderkind_. And put a shirt on."

Clothes are a blur, and Clark spends a very pleasurable ten minutes broadcasting that he's ready and watching the process of Lex getting ready. He spins the heavy gold watch around one finger until Lex casually explains that it's worth forty thousand dollars. Despite a certain puritan Kent revulsion at that kind of excess, Clark holds it far more carefully.

When they're ready, they climb out on the fire escape and Clark takes Lex in his arms. It's always nicer to fly with someone close to you, someone who doesn't mind hugging, and while Lex is a little stiff at first because of his heights thing, once Clark's zipped them up to cruising altitude he relaxes a little. It's a short flight to the penthouse, really, especially when you're going fast enough to blur. Clark touches down on the terrace and it occurs to him that, since Lex is here and in a good mood and everything, he might just be able to get a straight answer on a question that's been nagging him for a while. "Lex?"

Lex steps away uncertainly, but after a minute he's gained his footing. He doesn't even look all that green. "What?"

"Did you build this terrace just so I'd have someplace to go if I needed to talk to you? It wasn't here before you took over Luthorcorp."

"Partly," Lex says, walking over to brace his hands on the half-wall as he looks out on the city. "I always meant to put kryptonite missiles or something in it, but I never get around to it. You don't have any idea how hard it really is to get that kind of ordinance up here."

"Hilarious," Clark scowls.

"I wasn't kidding," Lex tells him, perfectly serious. But then he turns around and smiles, blindingly brilliant. "Except for the kryptonite part."

Clark scowls harder, just to make the point, and moves up behind him to look out at the city. The urge is there, and he gets to indulge, so he presses his hips up against Lex's body just a little bit and sighs. The crook of his neck smells warm, like home; Clark buries his face there and sighs again.

"What?" Lex asks gently.

"Just thinking," Clark says. "We'll have to give this up soon."

Lex is perfectly unchanged - no sudden tension, no comforting hand. "I know."

Clark presses a little closer to him, dares a swift kiss to the tender skin. "Think we could make the most of it?"

"Mm. There _have_ been a few things I've wanted to do to you in my office."

"Like what?" Clark asks, pretty sure he'll like whatever answer comes.

As the clock ticks down, Lex shows him. Though there's plenty that makes Clark's blood boil, it's the kissing that sticks in his memory - Clark tries to savor them, but Lex is rapacious, allowing no quarter. Every time Clark thinks, _okay, this is where I finally get to just kiss him, show him,_ that's the moment Lex picks to run his tongue somewhere that whites out Clark's mind. It's distracting, and by the time the clock shows their last minutes ticking down, Clark's getting a little desperate.

"Listen," he says, lying on the gray carpet, the fibers creasing his naked skin. "Can I just... I know it's your day, but..."

Lex turns his head on Clark's arm. Scraps of shirt fall off his chest, hanging by threads from his collar. "Is it fast?" he asks, his voice scratchy and quiet. "There's only... uh. I think my watch is under the table."

"Four minutes," Clark supplies. There's no lead in the walls here - Lex evidently feels he doesn't need it - and from this height he can see the clock at city hall. "It won't take much time, I promise."

Lex looks up at the ceiling, a lazy smile on his face. "Well, I don't know, Clark. My last four minutes, I mean... that's a valuable commodity. I think we'll have to discuss the ramifi-"

The flood of words dies under Clark's mouth. He can feel Lex try to turn it again - a hand in his hair, the swipe of a clever tongue - but Clark refuses to be baited. As softly as he can, he holds Lex against the floor and licks the length of that old scar, pours his heart against the curve of his lips and the ridge of teeth inside. He's not trying to be sexy, as hot as the last day has been - he's pretty sure he wouldn't know how to be sexy if his life depended on it. But he does try to be honest, and to Lex, Clark thinks that might mean kind of the same thing.

When he pulls away, Lex's eyes are clouded and dangerous, a rocky reef in a turbulent sea.

"I could call the JLA," he murmurs, tracing a fingertip along the warm curve of Lex's palm.

Lex rubs a thumb along Clark's palm, tentative, even though the set of his jaw is almost angry. "I suppose Mercy could handle things for another... hour. Or two."

"Or three," Clark says, careful to wear his most serious face.

Lex's hand tightens in his hair. "Or month," he growls, and pulls Clark down again.

In perfect unison, the desk phone and Clark's JLA communicator go off. The hypersonic chirp and the insistent executive ring stop their mouths just a breath away from one another, and they both groan in the morning light.

"I better get that," Clark says. "Earth in peril."

"Contingency protocols," Lex murmurs back. "If I don't answer, Mercy'll burst in with a gun."

Clark sighs, and rolls away. They answer their respective emergencies, deal with their clothes the best they can, and when Clark's finally able to hang up, Lex is standing beside his desk, waiting.

"So," Lex says, crossing his arms over the crisp new shirt. "How do you want it?"

Clark blinks, wide-eyed.

"The money," Lex clarifies, with an irony-filled lift of his eyebrow. "For the farm?"

"Oh," Clark says, pink prickling under his cheeks. "Uh. A check's fine. Just mail it to the house."

"Which house?" Lex asks, smooth and slick and all wrong. "I'm pretty sure Martha would open a Luthorcorp envelope, even if it had your name on it."

Clark's blush turns angry, redder. "The apartment, then. You know where it is."

"About that, your neighborhood - a lot of carjackings around there, right? Should I bother to send someone for the car, or should I just accept it as a lost cause?"

Clark heads for the terrace doors. "Send someone," he growls through gritted teeth. "I have to go."

Lex waves a magnanimous hand. "Right, Earth in peril. Good luck with that."

The rush of cool air from outside is a balm to his burning skin. Clark flies fast enough that the wind screams, blots out all sound, and stays in the air for hours.

Someone eventually comes to get Lex's Ferrari and drop off the things Clark left at the penthouse. Clark stands on the air a few feet over him, arms crossed over his S-shield, and takes a tremendous amount of satisfaction - okay, petty satisfaction, but still - out of making the guy prove that he isn't a carjacker. Anybody could have a set of keys pressed.

The week goes by as weeks in Metropolis do. Supervillains, corporate espionage, Lois demanding more and better coffee. Clark moves through it by the numbers; his mind's on his job (jobs) but his heart's back at home with junk food and daytime TV. He doesn't want to miss Lex, because he knew he would - Clark's perverse like that. But nothing good can come of it. It's complicated and twisted up and it never gets any better, he knows all that. By the time it rolls around to the weekend again, he's almost got himself convinced that it was good to take the chance, good to get it out of his system. He's chasing bad guys again, he's writing something better than fluff pieces, so he figures it's all right.

Then Lois gets hold of this story; Luthorcorp up to some dastardly evil again. She rattles off a dozen numbers, street kids and pesticide, and Clark only vaguely hears it because his brain is busy coming up with ways that he might run into Lex during the course of this investigation. If he sees him, what will he say? Maybe he should try to be as invisible as possible. He's just going to have to avoid security cameras entirely.

While Lois rappels, secret-agent-like, into a Luthorcorp facility in Bakerline, Clark sets himself up on top of the Emperor Building. The tourists teem around him, plugging quarters into view binoculars and showing their kids the skyline. Clark sips at his coffee, leans on the railing and peers through four buildings and into Lex's office - just to make sure Lois has some warning, of course. Just to make sure he doesn't order any executions.

He doesn't. He's vicious behind the desk, his head bent over reports and a keyboard, his headset on his ear. Clark surmises that they're taking over a company, but Wayne Enterprises is bidding against them, and that if Lex is contemplating any kind of murder right now, it isn't a bunch of street kids. After a couple of hours, Clark gets a breathless call from Lois, proclaiming victory. He heads for the elevator and wonders what time Lex typically stops working.

There's no story the next night, but somehow Clark finds himself on top of the Emperor with a Sundollar latte in his hand. He watches for four hours this time, and Lex is still going strong at midnight. (Clark had to escape the security guys by sneaking up onto the actual roof.)

He takes the elevator the next day, too. It'd feel like crossing some kind of line to do this in uniform. He's honest enough with himself that he can admit this is personal, done on his own time, so he'll wear his own clothes.

This time, when the guards come around, Clark gets up on the greening copper roof and immediately finds his eye drawn to a little silver-and-purple package, sitting up there just like it's always been. Of course, it wasn't here yesterday, so Clark takes it and sits down. The bow falls away with a touch, the shiny paper the same, and Clark lifts the lid off to peer inside. Resting on a folded bit of paper lies a brand new watch. Clark lifts it out and looks it over; it's designer, probably a couple thousand dollars, and it looks quite a bit like his old one, down to the clasp and brown leather. He checks the piece of paper and, of course, it's a check printed on heavy lilac stock. A personal account, just a series of numbers, Switzerland National Bank, but still there can't be any doubt who it's from. Nevermind that it's for five hundred thousand dollars and payable to Mr. Clark Kent.

He looks up, and out of habit he opens his focus up to a few thousand feet. Across the chasms of Metropolis, with more than that between them, Lex is standing by his windows, looking at the Emperor Building with a glass of scotch in his hand. He can't possibly see from that distance, not with the naked eye, but he seems to be looking right at Clark all the same.

A piece of paper flutters down, having been folded with the check. Clark catches it before the breeze whisks it away, and in Lex's firm, precise handwriting it says: _I broke it, I bought it._

Clark puts everything back into the box, stuffs it into his pocket and heads for the stratosphere. Up in the clouds, he looks at the watch and the check and tries to figure out which one the card was talking about.

The next morning brings with it a fresh bout of guilt. He feels so bad that he brings donuts in to work, just to feel like a good guy and not a crazy obsessive stalker. (Not that he wouldn't have come by that honestly, but still.) The donuts are gone in the blink of an eye and Lois starts in on some plastic surgery scam that leaves people with no eyelids. Or something. Clark's mind is, again, elsewhere.

She has to throw an eraser at his head to get his attention, and he has to pretend it hurt his eye to distract her. It's nice to be fussed over, even if it's by Lois, who automatically assumes he's a clod. It gives him his usual moment of amusement to hear her describe him as delicate. He thanks her for being concerned before she leaves, taking her hand and meeting her eyes. He loves to watch her stumble and freeze when he does that, when that glimmer of suspicion creeps into her mind that he might not be such an awkward loser after all. Then he stands up and trips over something, and she's heading off to find a bag of frozen peas, muttering under her breath about what a totally awkward _loser_ he is.

Sometimes Clark has trouble not laughing right out loud when he's with Lois. She's like mom's apple pie, or leftover mac and cheese – the kind of thing you crave when you need to feel like everything's going to be okay. It helps take his mind off his troubles for five minutes, anyway, which is exactly what he needed.

Once was surveillance, twice was spying, and three times on top of the Emperor became stalking. Clark only knows one way to apologize when you're in the doghouse, which he assumes he is with Lex. Dad always brought Mom red tulips, because they were her favorite, so on his lunch break he heads to Nepal and finds a mountainside full of vividly purple rhododendrons. He debates for a minute over the poisonous ones - Lex would probably find that funny - but the potential for disaster is too high, so he opts for the ones which are both pretty and safe. It takes a few seconds to gather enough of them onto a tarp, and another ten minutes to get back home.

It's tricky to get a hundred pounds of rhododendrons up to Lex's terrace without being seen, but once he's up there he finds he's caught a bit of luck - the office is empty. It's right next to the terrace, and Clark would prefer the flowers to be a surprise. When he's blanketed the terrace's stones with purple petals, he puts the card he found onto the birdbath, right in the middle. It all looks about right, so he heads up into the sky and waits.

It takes a few minutes for Lex to show up. Clark's checking his watch, worrying about whether or not he should bring some kind of heavily caffeinated offering for Lois as an apology for taking an extra half hour on his lunch, and then the elevator pings and his focus is drawn unerringly down. He peers through the wall as Lex talks on the phone, sifting papers, lost in his work. His body is pretty stressed; Clark notes muscles shivering with tension, an empty stomach trying to eat itself. Lex ignores it all, of course, moving through his office like a shark in water. He touches a button on his cell phone and then throws his headset onto the desk and pinches the bridge of his nose. _Why must I suffer these fools,_ Clark's mind fills in, and he grins to himself.

The moment he notices something strange going on outside is magic. He stills, the nervous energy around him dissipating almost instantly. His phone rings and he ignores it, walking out toward the terrace doors with his eyes fixed on the wide field of purple. He steps out onto the stone like a kid into Narnia - hesitant, lest the whole thing turn out to be some kind of vast illusion that will disappear if he moves too fast. He pushes blossoms out of the way with his feet, wading gracefully through them toward the birdbath. He takes the card, reads it, and instantly looks up. Clark is carefully hidden, and when Lex determines that he's not immediately apparent, he gives a soft, wry laugh, like old paper. He shakes his head, picks up one of the flowers, and takes it back inside.

Clark notes, with unease in his stomach, that Lex has left the terrace doors open.

He goes back to the Planet with a double-shot mochaccino for Lois and lets her yell at him for "forgetting" to get it with skim. It's not as satisfying as it should be; Clark's preoccupied with the thought of those open doors, waiting for him. But he knows what would have happened if he'd gone inside. Lex is too good at making him forget the objections.

There was a reason he kept it to a day, he thinks, googling Moldova for a piece on human trafficking. Any longer than a day and Lex would have time to get convincing. He can do that, even on things you wouldn't ever imagine could be in question. Done by a responsible party, Lex might say, some human trafficking can result in improved conditions for the immigrants in their new country, and new workers to improve the economy in the target country. Immigration restrictions as they stand, Clark can hear him arguing, are outdated and based on xenophobia instead of sound economics.

Clark gets a lot of point-counterpoint for articles out of imagining what Lex might say. He'd never tell anybody that, but it's true.

So letting him loose on the eminently more questionable field of Clark's motivations and actions... that's just like _asking_ for trouble. And that's exactly what he'd be doing if he went to Lex now.

Maybe if he were kept from speaking...

That pleasant thought occupies his mind all the way home, and he spends a decent, normal evening for the first time since Saturday.

The next day shatters Clark's fragile peace the minute the elevator doors open. People are running everywhere, shouldering past him, and he has to push his way into the bullpen to see what's happening. He can hear Perry shouting all the way down the hall, and when he finally comes into view, Clark can see this is not a standard-issue last minute freak out over the front page, but something quite a bit more serious. Perry's tie is askew, his eyes are showing white at the edges, and he's pointing his finger in the stony face of a lawyer in a very expensive suit. All around the newsroom, suited goons are emptying papers into boxes, fighting with reporters over laptops.

"You can't do this!" Perry is shouting, full of rage. "You can kiss your practice goodbye, bubba!"

The lawyer doesn't so much as flinch. "You have our injunction, Mister White. I suggest you review it."

"That thing isn't worth the paper it's printed on," Perry spits. "LuthorCorp's bought-and-paid-for judges get their edicts overturned in minutes. The Daily Planet is a respected newspaper-"

"A respected newspaper," interrupts the lawyer, "that is alleged to have acquired top secret government documents pertaining to one of LuthorCorp's private contracts. Now, our injunction stands, Mister White; it's perfectly legal. And if you persist in interfering with our men, I'll have you arrested for obstruction of justice!"

" _Justice?!_ " shouts Perry, and Clark flinches as the tirade begins anew. He screws up his concentration and starts sifting through the sounds of the building. Someone, somewhere, has an idea what this is all about - they don't just toss the Planet for no reason. If they were really looking for something, they'd have found it quietly; they'd have done something actually legal instead of just causing a ruckus, which is all they've really accomplished. Somebody has to know what the real goal...

In the morning conference room, abandoned in all the commotion, somebody is singing. It's a quiet voice, under the breath, not intended to be anything but a way to pass the time.

Clark knows that voice.

It's not hard to slip away from the bullpen, under the cover of strident voices. He hasn't seen Lois yet, but she's probably hiding out in archives, trying to find a reason this is totally illegal. Clark's sure she'll find one. He sneaks his way into the conference room and shuts the door fast, just in case anybody gets the idea to follow him. It really wouldn't be a good idea.

Lex is sitting in one of the conference chairs, his fingers steepled in front of him. He gazes idly out the window as he murmurs bars of music under his breath. The blue sky frames him in the chair, sun glinting off the Metropolis high-rises laid out below him. Clark wonders sourly if he ever _isn't_ reflected by his surroundings. Even when he's bleeding and dirty, he looks perfect; a fact that wasn't lost on a gawky teenage kid who thought Lex spun the world. Maybe he's a closet meteor freak whose power is... looking cool. Or something.

"So," Clark says, keeping his voice down just in case. "Your phone was broken?"

Lex turns to look at him and shrugs, a kind of elegant, European shrug that seems built to come with a carefree smile - which it does. "I'm just following a good example," he says, light and teasing. "Last time I was in your place, apologizing for my shall-we-say- _inquisitive_ nature, you demanded I turn out my pockets. Show I'd gotten rid of the stash."

Clark crosses his arms over his chest and raises a pointed eyebrow.

"They won't find anything," Lex explains, standing up and crossing to Clark's side of the table. He puts his hands in his pockets, but he still comes way inside the personal boundaries they'd established pre-Saturday. Clark fights the urge to back up, and Lex smiles at him in that twisted, Luthor way he can do when he tries. "But there's still something to find, isn't there, Clark?"

"Excuse me?"

Lex leans a hip against the table and armcrosses right back at him. "You still have a keepsake. A little memento you're holding onto."

Is there? Clark's mind frantically reviews the contents of his desk, his wallet, his pockets, and comes up blank. Lex can't be talking about the watch; he clearly meant that as a gift, and it's too obvious anyway. He'd go for something more subtle. "And that is?" Clark asks, giving up.

"A fairly expensive piece of paper," Lex says. "About five hundred thousand?"

Oh. The check. "I thought I earned that piece of paper," Clark says, despite the intense burning sensation going on in his face.

Lex takes a long, appreciative look over him, just like he's always been able to do. This time, though, Clark feels his teeth in the places they like to fit, his fingers pressing down where they tend to fall on Clark's body. Lex lets his eyes rest just at the curve of muscle there, linger over the sweep of a curl against that cheekbone. "You know you did."

"So?"

"So generally, when I give people checks for a half a million dollars, they _cash_ them." He gives a rare, genuine smile. "You denuded a mountain somewhere for those flowers, didn't you? I had a florist come in, but he couldn't place them."

Clark feels the heat under his eyelashes, trying to fog his glasses. "Maybe."

Lex chuckles low in his throat, and before Clark can really react, he's got a hand up against Clark's face, rubbing a soft thumb over his cheekbone. Clark's arms drop away, his breath catching in his throat like some kind of learned response to Lex's body. Memories are flashing through his head, filthy images that have no business in the here and now, but he can't stop seeing them in vivid sunset red.

"Only you," Lex murmurs, a surprisingly gentle smile curving his lips. "Even though there's quite literally nobody else in the world who could pile an acre of exotic rhododendrons on my terrace, only you would leave a _card_."

Clark closes his eyes against this vision. Something must have gone wrong, somewhere, something has to be magic or brainwashed or on fire. It can't be real.

Lex brushes a thumb across his lips, heavy and dragging. "You know you want it," he says gently. "Distract me. Keep an eye on me. Keep me honest, Clark. Whatever you need, tell me. I can play along."

He catches Lex's wrist, opens his eyes. "But you don't want to," Clark says, the words bitter in his mouth. "You want me to play hero, and turn a blind eye to what you do. And I can't, Lex. I _can't._ "

"Am I asking for that?" Lex counters, suddenly serious as a death in the family. "I know about the farm."

Clark blinks at him, stunned into silence. He drops Lex's hand and paces away to glare out the window, cover his chest with his arms as though it'll make him feel stronger.

"It's not in trouble," Lex continues, his voice coming closer, lower. "You haven't changed so much since I knew you that you'd let yourself do this. I know you better, so indulge me, Clark. What is it? Someone in trouble, maybe a friend with a gambling problem? Why would you need me so badly?"

He's right here. Clark can feel the heat of his hand, his body, just a few inches away, and he can't think of an answer to that question that isn't the truth. It's choking him, it's right at his throat, and as much as he ached to say it a week and a half ago, he can barely keep it back now. It's clawing at him, burning at him.

"Tell me," Lex breathes, and he rests his hand against Clark's hip.

It's too much to bear, and Clark turns around to face him, to push him back against the table. Lex hits hard, jarring, his eyes wide as Clark closes the distance between them and presses along his body, such a blessed release. "Because," Clark grits out, his teeth clenched, his hands closing on Lex's wrist, the back of his neck. "I love you. You idiot."

Lex's eyes go stormy, furious. "Don't," he spits out, like a dirty word.

"Don't?" Clark says, ignoring the tension under his hands as he leans in, just barely avoiding brushing his lips over Lex's. "You're always calling me a liar. Isn't it kind of late to ask me to bluff you?"

He knows Lex would like to shove him away, but he's got too much dignity to try and fail. Instead he just stands there, tense and waiting, readying his next assault. The fair thing to do would be to let him make his point, to not push where he obviously would rather not go.

Just this once, Clark doesn't feel like being fair. "You always knew it," he insists, pushing his face down to nuzzle along Lex's jaw. "Don't act like you couldn't see me. Even back then, you knew."

"You _wanted_ me," Lex says, derisive, contemptuous. "You weren't even old enough to know what you wanted, let alone to be..."

Clark presses against him, pushes his knee between Lex's. "To be in love with you," he completes, reveling in the chance to finally say it. "I know how I feel. I'm not fifteen anymore, Lex."

"That's painfully obvious," Lex grumbles, trying to shift away. It's not working, but he tries. "You used to be polite."

Clark shakes his head, takes the scent of Lex again. He'd told himself he wouldn't get this close again, so being that way now is like cheating on a diet: all the more delicious for being against the rules. "I used to be afraid."

"You still are," Lex insists, finally pushing at him. "What happened to your high horse, Clark? I thought you _couldn't_."

Making sure to keep Lex pressed against the table, Clark backs up enough to look him in the eyes. "I can't forget the things you do," he says seriously. "But that doesn't mean I don't love you, all the same."

Lex looks at him as the silence stretches, confused and angry. It's written across his face - his expressive, obvious face that Clark can always read like a neon sign. "That makes no _sense_ ," he whispers, secret and strained. "You can't love someone if you hate what they do."

"But I do," Clark shrugs. "I'm not afraid of you anymore. I don't know why you do these things, but I know I hate it. And I know that even though I hate it, I can't stop... needing you. You were right, before. I do need you."

Lex turns his face to the side, his mouth pressed in a tight line. "Stop it."

Clark knows better. "Can I still have you?" he asks, pressing his face against Lex's collar again. It smells right, good, necessary. "Would you let me?"

A strong hand digs into his hair, that strong grip accessing his instincts, making him obey the command to pull back, to meet those clear blue eyes. "Right now," Lex growls, leaving no doubt what he means. "Right here, right now, or no deal."

The conference room seems horrifically open, all of a sudden. Clark checks the doors and notes that there are no locks. He could weld the handles, he supposes, but then everybody would know that Superman had been here, and that's too much of a risk - he'll have to just leave them open and take a chance. Lex is pressing back against him now, twisting his hips in mind-cleaning circles. Clark feels his mouth start in, the drag of his teeth. "Okay," he breathes, knowing he never had any other choice. "Okay, Lex."

There's a moment's pause and Lex's shoulders go tense under Clark's hands. He draws away a little, and his eyes are blistering, peeling Clark's defenses away instantly. "You really mean that," Lex breathes, his hands coming to clench in the fabric at Clark's back. "You'd really let me bend you over the table and fuck you right now, you son of a bitch."

Those words can't have any kind of reasonable response, so Clark just turns his face away and blushes hard.

"You would," Lex says, edging closer, disbelieving. "Even though everyone you know is right outside these doors, your _boss_ is out there, and you'd let me..."

"Do you have to – to _talk_ about it all day?" Clark stammers, squirming under that stare.

There's that hand in his hair, then, gripping hard. While Clark's busy forgetting how to breathe, Lex slides around behind him and pushes him up to the table. "I don't _really_ want us to get caught," he explains, pulling at Clark's belt, sliding the leather through the loops and making the buckle click against the polished table. His voice is like Mississippi coffee, like cigarette smoke after sex. "I didn't ever learn to share; you might have noticed that."

Clark tries to turn, to touch back, but Lex pushes hard against him, a hand planted on his solar plexus. It's warm, anchoring, and Clark wants to let himself sigh into it, go with it. If he weren't in the Daily Planet's conference room, he would. He can't stop remembering to listen for somebody coming, and it's distracting him.

Right up to the point that Lex pulls his zipper down. "If anybody comes in, I might have to have them blinded."

"Don't joke about stuff like that," Clark says, trying to sound firm and sounding instead like somebody's been beating him with a really strong tire iron.

Lex pushes his fingers under the elastic of Clark's boxers. His skin is cool and soft; he pushes the fabric down just enough to expose Clark to the open air, under the flaps of his shirt. Lex grips him hard, presses him against the table and squeezes his cock in a strong grip. "I'm not stopping," Lex whispers, mouth hot on Clark's ear, slipping wet over the tender curve of skin. "Can you come before they find us? Better hope so."

"Okay," Clark pants, shifting as Lex squeezes just a little harder. A clear drop slips from the tip of his dick and hits the conference table, and Clark almost hyperventilates. "Just let me turn around, let me touch you. God, Lex."

"No."

The grip slides up, tight fingers slicking themselves on Clark's cock and sliding back down. The blood is racing through him; he's panting desperately. He could wait this out, only then he'd be caught, and if he doesn't wait it looks like he's going to have to come all over the table where Perry yells at the news team every morning, and these two situations are completely intolerable and why, _why_ does Lex have to have hands that can _do_ this to him, why can't he be in love with someone who doesn't _ask_ for stuff like this, why is it so hot when he does that with his _teeth,_ Jesus Christ. "You," Clark pants, hips bucking into Lex's hand. "You're... so... _twisted_..."

Lex laughs at that, muffling it against Clark's shoulder. "You're the one getting off on it."

"God," Clark groans, shutting his eyes so he won't have to watch. The tails of his shirt make cool drafts against the hottest skin he has; it raises goose bumps all over his skin, and still he can't stop pushing his cock into the slick, tight heat Lex makes for him. "Oh, God, Lex, please."

"Shut up," Lex urges, putting a vicious twist into the motion of his wrist. It's unbearable and Clark gasps again, right out loud. Lex bites at the back of his neck, the flat white ridge digging at the last shreds of his control. "I said, be quiet. Don't make me gag you with your own tie."

Clark's palms hit the table with a resounding thump; he leans on the only decent surface and clenches his teeth as he rides out the full, blinding surge of orgasm that tears through him. Lex's hand keeps pace, perfect, right where it should be, and the feel of the heavy erection behind those thousand dollar pants sends a second earth-shaking shudder to wrack Clark's body. Nothing in the world feels like this; maybe fighting with metas, maybe running fast enough to break the sound barrier, but never with another person, never, except for Lex. Always, only Lex.

When he finally regains some semblance of himself, he lifts himself away from the table. Lex has eased away and is over by the conference door, leaning against it. "I don't care what you have to tell them, Perkins," he's calling. "It's _occupied_."

"Sir," comes a muffled voice through the door. "Sir, it's _their_ conference room."

Clark feels himself turn purple as his eyes are drawn to the ruined table, and he immediately starts looking around for paper towels, something that might help this not be some kind of unholy disaster. Only once he's two steps toward the coffee station does he remember to stop and make himself decent again.

"I know it's their conference room," Lex says, and Clark can hear the laughter in his voice. He turns to give Lex what he hopes is an unholy death glare, but Lex just laughs right out loud. "They can wait," he chortles, waving Clark toward the paper.

The cleanup is fast and not as good as he can make it, but at least nothing overt can be seen or... smelled. Clark stuffs wadded-up towels in his pocket and tries to imagine how he's going to sit down at his desk without bursting into flames.

"Take the day off," Lex says, coming around the table to stand in front of him. The smile is big, leonine, dangerous.

Clark scowls. "Some of us work for a living, Luthor."

"Well, Mister Kent," Lex says, running his fingers along Clark's tie, down his arm. "You have fun with that. I'm going back to the penthouse, where I will be taking care of _this_." He takes Clark by the wrist and pulls his hand forward, presses the palm against the front of his pants. His eyes are a wicked, devious, feral blue.

Clark wonders how long his brain can manage without oxygen, if he's just not going to breathe at all. "That isn't fair," he objects, curling his fingers around the hot length under his hand.

"I'm a villain," Lex says, with perfect seriousness.

"Don't remind me," Clark groans. He looks at Lex then, hoping against hope. "How can we do this? How can we find some kind of way to-"

Lex's mouth is soft and purely silencing. "Later," he murmurs against Clark's lips. "Let's have that discussion much, much later."

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Implied prostitution, and the dubcon that entails. In the end it's revealed that the need for money was totally fabricated, which Lex knew the whole time, so while it's still their usual demented head game, no fiscal coercion actually takes place.


End file.
